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

[Bowlg78]

Waiting for update... security guard and devika

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



The storm enveloped Ganapathi's small dwelling in a cocoon of sound—rain hammering the tin roof, wind whistling through cracks in the windows, distant thunder rolling across the sky. Inside, candles flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls. Devika sat perched on the edge of Ganapathi's only chair, his flannel shirt wrapped around her shoulders, the borrowed saree sitting uncomfortably low on her hips. The conversation about their respective marriages had created an unexpected intimacy between them, a fragile connection forged in the crucible of shared disappointment.



Ganapathi cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence that had settled between them. "We should eat something, madam. Storm will not stop soon, and empty stomach makes cold feel worse."



Devika nodded, suddenly aware of the hollow feeling in her abdomen. She hadn't eaten since a light lunch at the college canteen, hours ago. "Yes, I am rather hungry."



"I don't have much," Ganapathi said apologetically, rising from the bed. "Bachelor cooking only. But I have some potatoes, onions, flour. We can make aloo paratha maybe."



The words sent an electric current through Devika's body. Aloo paratha. The very dish she had invited Ramlal to her apartment to make. The pretext that had led to his hands guiding hers through the dough, his body pressed against her back, his breath hot against her neck. Heat spread across her skin that had nothing to do with the temperature of the small room.



"Aloo paratha sounds perfect for this weather," she said, her voice emerging slightly higher than intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself. "Warm, filling."



Ganapathi nodded, moving toward the kitchen alcove. "Yes, good for rainy night. My wife taught me how to make. Not fancy restaurant style, but tasty." A shadow passed over his face at the mention of his wife, but he shook it off quickly, busying himself with pulling ingredients from a small wooden cabinet.



Devika watched as he moved with surprising efficiency, setting potatoes to boil in a small pot, placing a worn cutting board on the counter. There was something mesmerizing about his movements—practiced, confident in this space that was wholly his. Unlike the hesitant, deferential manner he displayed at the college, here he seemed more substantial, more defined.



"Can I help?" she asked, rising from the chair, drawn to the warmth and activity of the kitchen area.



Ganapathi turned, surprise evident on his weathered face. "No, no, madam. You are guest. Professor. Not right for you to work in kitchen while I am here."



"Don't think of me as a professor now," Devika said, stepping closer to the small counter. "I'm just a person, seeking shelter from the storm. And I'd like to be useful."



Her words hung between them, loaded with more meaning than the simple request implied. Ganapathi studied her face, as if searching for the true intent behind her offer.



"Please," she added. "I feel awkward just sitting while you do all the work."



His resistance crumbled visibly. "Okay, madam. If you insist." He glanced around, searching for a task simple enough to assign her. "These onions need cutting for the filling. You can do this if you like."



He handed her two medium-sized onions and a small knife, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. Even that fleeting contact sent a charge through her body, making her acutely aware of the loosely tied blouse on her back, the low-slung petticoat exposing her midriff.



"Thank you," she said, taking the knife and moving to a small clear space on the counter.



The kitchen alcove was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. Their bodies existed in a constant state of near-collision as they worked, arms brushing, shoulders touching as they navigated the cramped space. Each contact, however brief, seemed magnified by the intimate setting, by the memory of his hands on her body in the auto-rickshaw.



As Devika began to slice the onions, she found herself hyper-aware of Ganapathi's presence behind her. She could feel his gaze occasionally touching her back, where the blouse gaped open between the two ties. The sensation of being watched, of being desired, was both uncomfortable and strangely thrilling.



The potatoes finished boiling, and Ganapathi moved to drain them in a small colander. Steam filled the kitchen space, adding to the already humid air. Sweat began to bead along Devika's hairline, trickling down her neck and between her shoulder blades.



"Kitchen gets very hot with cooking," Ganapathi observed, noticing her discomfort. "Small space, no ventilation."



Devika nodded, feeling perspiration dampening the flannel shirt around her shoulders. The additional layer, welcome earlier against the chill, now felt stifling. Without thinking, she slipped it off, dbanging it over the back of the chair.



"Much better," she sighed, returning to her task.



Only when she caught Ganapathi's sudden stillness did she realize what she'd done. Without the shirt covering her shoulders and back, she stood before him in just the borrowed blouse and saree—the blouse that exposed most of her back, secured by only two tenuous ties, the saree that sat scandalously low on her hips. The awareness of her exposure sent heat flooding through her body, pooling low in her belly.



Ganapathi's eyes traveled the length of her bare back, lingering on the knots that held the blouse together, on the expanse of golden skin between them. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, hands fumbling with the potatoes he was mashing.



"Onions are ready," Devika said, desperate to break the charged silence. She held up the cutting board, the chopped pieces swimming in her tears—a natural reaction to the vegetable that now provided convenient cover for her emotional confusion.



"Good, good," Ganapathi muttered, dragging his attention back to the task at hand. "Now we mix with potatoes and spices."



He added the onions to the mashed potatoes, then sprinkled in various spices from small containers—cumin, coriander, red chili powder. The fragrance filled the small kitchen, earthy and aromatic, creating another layer of intimacy in the space they shared.



Devika moved to the small sink, washing the knife and cutting board. The domestic nature of their actions—cooking together in this tiny kitchen while storm raged outside—carried a strange weight, as if they were playing at a relationship that didn't exist. She felt Ganapathi's eyes on her again as she stretched to place the cutting board on a high shelf, knew he was watching the movement of muscles across her exposed back.



"Now we need to prepare the flour," Ganapathi said, his voice rougher than before. "For the outer covering."



He reached past her for a metal container of flour, his arm brushing against hers, the contact brief but electric. Devika's heart quickened, her body remembering with sudden clarity the weight of Ramlal's chest against her back as he'd guided her hands through the dough. The memory was so vivid she could almost feel his breath on her neck, his fingers pressing against hers.



Something must have shown on her face, because Ganapathi paused, flour container in hand. "Madam? Are you all right?"



"Yes," she said quickly, though she was anything but. "Just thinking about the next step."



She watched as Ganapathi measured flour into a bowl, creating a well in the center for water. Her mind racing ahead to what might come next, to boundaries she'd already crossed once and now stood poised to cross again.





# Scene 2



"We must prepare the flour now," Ganapathi said, measuring water into a small cup.



Devika's tongue darted out, unconsciously wetting her lips at his words. Her heart hammered against her ribs as memories of Ramlal flooded her senses—his chest pressed against her back, his hands enveloping hers, kneading her flesh as thoroughly as they had kneaded the dough. She could almost feel his fingers digging into her waist, leaving floury prints on her skin.



She wanted to feel that again—the boundary-crossing pleasure of a man's body aligned with hers under the pretense of cooking. But a flicker of doubt rippled through her excitement. With Ramlal, she had maintained some semblance of control. Ganapathi was different—older, more direct in his desires, less constrained by the protocols that had governed their interactions at the college. She had already felt the hard evidence of his arousal in the auto, had already experienced the hunger in his touch.



"I'll knead the flour," she heard herself say, the decision made before her conscious mind could intervene.



Ganapathi looked up sharply, surprise evident in the furrow of his brow. "No, madam. This needs strong hands. Proper kneading requires strength." He flexed his weathered fingers demonstratively. "I will do."



"I have strong hands," Devika insisted, stepping closer to the bowl. "Give me a chance."



His eyes moved over her—taking in the exposed curve of her shoulders, the way the borrowed blouse strained against her breasts, the glimpse of navel visible above the low-slung saree. Something like amusement flickered across his face, as if he found her claim of strength charmingly absurd when contrasted with her evident femininity.



"As you wish," he conceded, stepping aside. "But don't blame me if arms get tired."



Devika positioned herself before the bowl, acutely aware of Ganapathi's eyes on her as she poured water into the well of flour. She began mixing with her fingers, trying to incorporate the water evenly throughout the dry ingredients. Almost immediately, she encountered resistance—the flour remained stubbornly separated into wet clumps and dry patches, refusing to form a cohesive mass.



"You see?" Ganapathi said after watching her struggle for several moments. "Not coming properly. Needs technique."



Devika frowned at the bowl. "I've only prepared dough a few times," she admitted, thinking of Ramlal and how effortlessly he had transformed the ingredients into smooth, pliable dough. Her hands, more accustomed to handling laboratory equipment than kitchen staples, felt clumsy and ineffective.



"Let me show you how to do properly," Ganapathi offered, moving toward her. "Move aside."



Her heart skipped, the moment of opportunity approaching. This was what she had been waiting for, had been orchestrating from the moment he mentioned aloo parathas. She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the flutter of nerves in her stomach.



"No," she said, her voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. "Not like that. Teach me. Come here—guide me." The suggestion hung in the air between them, laden with meaning beyond the simple words.



Ganapathi froze, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. "Guide you? You mean...?" His hands made a vague gesture that encompassed both of them, the implication clear.



"Yes," Devika confirmed, holding his gaze steadily despite the heat rising in her cheeks. "Show me how to use my hands properly. From behind." She turned back to the bowl, presenting her exposed back to him. "That's the best way for me to learn."



Ganapathi stood motionless for several heartbeats, as if processing her suggestion. She could almost hear the rapid calculations in his mind—the risk, the opportunity, the unspoken boundary she was inviting him to cross.



"Are you sure, madam?" His voice emerged hoarse, strained with barely contained desire.



"Yes," she said firmly, though her pulse raced with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. "I'm hungry. The sooner we prepare this, the sooner we can eat."



With visible effort, Ganapathi moved behind her, his legs slightly shaky as he positioned himself at her back. She felt the heat of him before they made contact—the warmth radiating from his body as he stood close enough to feel but not touch. His breath came in shallow bursts against her bare shoulder, sending goosebumps cascading down her spine.



From this position, Ganapathi had a direct view of her back where the blouse gaped open, secured only by two thin ties—one at her neck and one at her waist. Between them lay an expanse of golden skin, the graceful curve of her spine, the subtle shift of muscles beneath smooth flesh. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he took in the sight, felt the moment of hesitation before he leaned forward.



"We should begin," she prompted when he remained frozen behind her.



"Yes, yes," he muttered, finally closing the distance between them.



His chest made contact with her upper back first, the thin cotton of his shirt doing little to mute the heat of his skin. His arms extended around her, hovering momentarily before descending to cover her hands in the bowl. The contrast was stark—his larger, darker hands, roughened by years of manual labor, enveloping her smaller, softer ones. She felt surrounded, enclosed by his presence.



"Like this," he instructed, his voice a low rumble near her ear. "Push with heel of palm, then fold with fingers. Always same direction."



He guided her hands in a circular motion, pressing the disparate elements together until they began to cohere. The dough gradually transformed beneath their joined hands, becoming more uniform with each pass. Devika was acutely aware of how his chest pressed against her back, how his breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair at her neck, how his thighs occasionally brushed against the backs of hers.



"More pressure," he murmured, applying more force through her hands. "Must work gluten to make dough elastic."



As they worked together, their bodies fell into a rhythm—forward and back, press and release, their movements synchronized in the small space. Heat built between them, the humid kitchen air growing thicker with their shared exertion. A drop of sweat traced a path down Devika's spine, disappearing into the gap where her blouse met the saree.



She felt his focus shift from the dough to her body—noticed how his chest pressed more firmly against her back, how his hands lingered longer when they lifted from the dough to be repositioned. His breath grew more ragged against her ear, his body temperature seeming to rise with each passing moment.



Devika shifted her weight slightly, pressing her buttocks back against him with deliberate pressure. The contact drew a sharp gasp from Ganapathi, his hands faltering in their steady rhythm. Against the small of her back, she felt the unmistakable hardness of his arousal, straining against the thin fabric of his lungi.



"Ah," he moaned, the sound half-pleasure, half-distress. "Sexy, soft ass."



The crude assessment, delivered in his accented English, should have offended her. Instead, it sent a pulse of heat between her thighs, a liquid warmth that pooled in her core. The raw honesty of his desire was somehow more arousing than polished compliments could ever be.



Suddenly, Ganapathi pulled away, breaking contact with her body. "Sorry, madam," he stammered, his voice thick with embarrassment. "I should not—this is not proper—"



"What happened?" Devika asked, turning slightly to look at him over her shoulder. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his eyes unable to meet hers.



"Nothing, nothing," he muttered, adjusting his lungi with clumsy movements that only drew attention to what he was trying to conceal.



Devika turned back to the dough, a small smile playing at her lips despite her effort to appear innocent. "That's fine, Ganapathi. I understand." She paused, then added with careful casualness, "But please don't leave until we finish the dough. It's coming along nicely now."



"You are not... upset?" he asked, confusion evident in his voice.



"No," she said simply. "We're just making parathas."



The pretense was paper-thin, transparent to them both, yet it provided the necessary fiction that allowed them to continue. Ganapathi hesitated a moment longer, then stepped forward again, positioning himself behind her once more.



This time, when he pressed against her, there was no pretense of accident or unawareness. His hardness nestled deliberately against the curve of her buttocks as his hands found hers in the dough. She pushed back slightly, acknowledging the contact, encouraging it.



"Continue with the dough," she instructed softly, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.



Ganapathi resumed guiding her hands through the kneading motions, but his focus had clearly shifted. As they worked the dough together, he began to rub his face against her bare upper back, his beard scratching lightly against her skin, his lips occasionally grazing her shoulder. The sensation was electric—each brush of his mouth against her skin sending currents of pleasure radiating outward.



The dough beneath their hands grew smoother, more pliable with each passing moment, mirroring the softening of boundaries between them.





# Scene 3



The dough was nearly ready, smooth and elastic beneath their joined hands. But Devika's attention had drifted from the flour to the pressure of Ganapathi's body against hers, to the heat building between them in the cramped kitchen. His face continued to brush against her bare back, his breathing growing more labored with each passing moment. The pretense of cooking instruction had worn gossamer-thin, transparent as the film of sweat on their skin.



"The flour is almost done," she said, her voice huskier than intended. Then, making a decision that sent her heart racing, she added, "But perhaps you'd prefer to knead something else."



Before Ganapathi could respond, she lifted his flour-dusted hands from the bowl and deliberately placed them on her hips, where the saree sat precariously low. The boldness of her action surprised even herself—this direct invitation, this explicit permission.



"The real flour," she murmured, pressing his palms against the curve of her hips, feeling the slight tremor in his fingers as they made contact with her body.



Ganapathi stood frozen behind her, his hands hovering where she had placed them, barely making contact, as if he feared she might dissolve beneath his touch. "Madam," he breathed, his voice thick with disbelief. "What are you doing?"



"Giving you permission," she replied, her eyes fixed on the dough before them, unable to turn and face him. "But only within limits."



"Are you sure?" he asked, his hands still hesitant against her hips. "In auto, you were angry when I touched."



"That was different," she said. "You took without asking. Now I'm offering." She paused, then added more firmly, "But only my waist and hips. Nothing more. Do you understand?"



A shuddering breath escaped him, hot against her shoulder. "Yes, madam. I understand. Thank you."



His gratitude, so earnest and unfiltered, sent an unexpected wave of tenderness through her. Then his hands began to move, and all thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in a gust of wind.



Ganapathi's touch was gentler than she had anticipated—reverent almost, his palms sliding slowly over the curve of her hips, fingers pressing lightly into the soft flesh. "So soft," he murmured, the words emerging as a prayer. "Soft hips."



He squeezed experimentally, testing the give of her flesh, and a small sound escaped Devika's throat—not quite a moan, but something close. Encouraged, his touch grew more confident, his fingers kneading the generous curve where her hips flared from her waist.



"Like this?" he asked, his voice a rasp against her ear.



"Yes," she whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the counter to steady herself.



Emboldened by her response, Ganapathi pressed closer, his chest flush against her back now, his lungi-covered erection nestled firmly against her buttocks. He lowered his face to her shoulder, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize her scent.



"You smell so good, madam," he groaned, his lips brushing the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Like flowers and woman."



The crude poetry of his words sent shivers across her skin. His mouth opened against her shoulder, lips pressing more firmly, tasting the salt of her skin. Then his tongue—hot and wet—traced a path from her shoulder to the base of her neck.



Devika jerked at the sensation, a gasp escaping her lips. "Ganapathi!"



"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled against her skin, though he didn't pull away. Instead, his tongue continued its exploration, leaving a trail of moisture along her shoulder, across the upper reaches of her back. His saliva cooled in the humid air, raising goosebumps across her skin.



His hands never stopped their movement, sliding from her hips to her waist, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matched the kneading they had performed on the dough. His face roamed across her exposed back, pressing against every inch of skin revealed by the gaping blouse, inhaling her scent like a man starved for oxygen.



"Your skin," he groaned between kisses. "So silky. Never felt skin like this." His beard scratched lightly against her, the contrast between his roughness and her smoothness creating a friction that sent pulses of heat through her body.



His right hand ventured to her abdomen, fingers splaying across the expanse of bare skin above the saree, tracing an upward path until they found her navel. The first touch against that small depression drew a sharp intake of breath from Devika—the area unexpectedly sensitive, perhaps made more so by Seenu's recent obsessive attention.



Ganapathi noticed her reaction immediately. One finger circled her navel, tracing its outline with deliberate slowness before dipping inside. "Sexy little hole," he murmured, his finger pressing deeper, exploring the small cavity with curious intensity.



The sensation was bizarre yet undeniably arousing—his callused fingertip rough against the tender skin, probing the intimate hollow with gentle insistence. Devika's stomach muscles tightened, her breath catching as he circled the depression, then pressed into it again.



"Ah," she gasped, the sound escaping before she could contain it.



"You like?" Ganapathi asked, his voice thick with desire. "Tell me what you like, madam."



His directness, the raw hunger in his voice, broke through some final barrier within her. "Yes," she admitted, the word barely audible. "Harder."



A groan rumbled through Ganapathi's chest, vibrating against her back. His finger pressed more firmly into her navel, circling with increased pressure. His other hand squeezed her hip with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft flesh until she felt the bite of pain beneath the pleasure.



"Ganapathi," she moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder. "Do you like me?"



"Yes," he answered immediately, his voice fervent with sincerity. "Yes, madam. From first day I see you, I think of touching you like this." His hands emphasized his words, squeezing her waist with possessive intensity.



"Yes," she encouraged, surrendering to the sensation. "Love my hips like that."



His hands responded instantly, kneading her flesh with renewed vigor, pressing deep into the generous curves. "Such sexy hips," he groaned, his body rocking slightly against hers. "When I joined college, first day, I could not take eyes off you. Waiting for saree to slide, to see more of this beautiful waist."



His confession sent a thrill through her—the knowledge that he had noticed her, had desired her, long before today's unexpected intimacy. "I noticed that," she said, a hint of playfulness entering her voice despite the intensity of the moment. "Your pervert eyes on me."



"Yes," he admitted without shame. "Old man can still appreciate beautiful woman."



His hands continued their work, squeezing and releasing, his fingers pressing deeper with each pass. The pressure intensified until his grip crossed the boundary from pleasure to pain—his weathered hands compressing her flesh with unexpected strength, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises by morning.



"Ah!" Devika cried out, the sound sharp with pain rather than pleasure. Yet beneath the discomfort ran a current of dark satisfaction—the knowledge that her body would carry the imprint of his desire, that she had inspired such uncontrolled passion in this man.



The kitchen filled with the sound of her cry, the echo bouncing off the close walls. Something in her voice—perhaps the edge of genuine pain—penetrated Ganapathi's haze of desire. His hands immediately gentled, though they didn't release her entirely.



"Enough," she said softly, placing her hands over his to still their movement. "That's enough, Ganapathi."



He froze instantly, his hands motionless beneath hers. "Did I hurt you, madam?" Concern laced his voice, breaking through the rough desire.



"A little," she admitted. "But it's fine. We just need to stop now."



Reluctantly, Ganapathi removed his hands from her body, stepping back to create space between them. The sudden absence of his heat left Devika feeling oddly bereft, despite being the one who had called a halt to their encounter.



"I need a moment," she said, not looking at him. "To adjust my saree."



Ganapathi nodded, his eyes following her as she moved toward the small bedroom. "Yes, madam. I will finish preparing dough."



Inside the bedroom, Devika closed the door and leaned against it, her heart racing, her skin still tingling from Ganapathi's touch. She examined her waist in the dim candlelight, noting the reddish marks his fingers had left behind. By morning, they would darken to purple-blue, evidence of this strange night that no one else would ever see.



She adjusted the low-hanging saree, tucking it more securely into the petticoat, and retied the loose strings of the blouse as best she could. Her body hummed with unfulfilled desire, a persistent ache that she knew would find no resolution tonight. The boundaries she had established—allowing his touch but limiting its scope—had protected her from going too far, yet left her suspended in a state of arousal that had no clear path to release.



When she returned to the kitchen, Ganapathi stood at the counter, rolling the dough into small balls. He looked up as she entered, his eyes immediately seeking the places where his hands had been.



"I am sorry, madam," he said quietly. "I got mad with desire. Pressed too hard."



"It's fine," she assured him, moving to stand beside him rather than in front of him. "As long as we keep things within limits."



He nodded, returning his attention to the dough. But his eyes continued to drift toward her, drawn to the curve of her waist, to the memory of flesh yielding beneath his hands. The storm outside showed no signs of abating, rain still hammering against the tin roof. The night stretched before them, hours yet to fill as they navigated this new, charged awareness of each other.



"Let me help with the parathas," Devika said, picking up one of the dough balls. "I'm still very hungry."



The double meaning hung in the air between them, acknowledged but not pursued. They worked side by side in the small kitchen, their bodies occasionally brushing, each contact carrying the weight of what had passed between them, and what had not.

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



The parathas sizzled on the small iron pan, golden-brown spots forming on their surface as the aroma of spiced potatoes filled the cramped kitchen. Devika watched Ganapathi's weathered hands flip them with practiced ease, the same hands that had kneaded her flesh minutes earlier now returning to more innocent labor. Outside, the storm continued its assault, rain drumming against the tin roof like impatient fingers, while inside, a different kind of tension hung in the air—unspoken, unacknowledged, but present in every careful movement they made around each other.



They ate at a small wooden table that Ganapathi had unfolded from against the wall, sitting across from each other, their knees occasionally brushing in the confined space. Candlelight flickered between them, casting dancing shadows across their faces, hiding as much as it revealed. Devika tore a piece of paratha, bringing it to her lips with fingers still faintly stained with blue ink. She chewed slowly, aware of Ganapathi's eyes following the movement of her jaw, lingering on her mouth.



The silence grew heavy, punctuated only by the sounds of eating and the persistent patter of rain. Ganapathi seemed content to watch her, his own food secondary to the feast his eyes made of her presence in his home, at his table, wearing his wife's clothes.



"The paratha is good," Devika finally said, needing to break the charged silence. "Very tasty."



Ganapathi's face creased into a smile, revealing teeth stained from years of paan-chewing. "Yes," he agreed, his voice low and intimate in the small space. "Added flavors from hips."



The crude reference to their earlier encounter in the kitchen—his hands on her waist, kneading her flesh as thoroughly as they had kneaded the dough—sent heat flooding through her body. She should have been offended, should have rebuked him for his presumptuousness. Instead, she found herself smiling back, a conspirator in this strange intimacy they had created.



"I never knew cooking could be such a... physical activity," she replied, surprising herself with her boldness.



"Best cooking happens when bodies work together," Ganapathi said, his eyes holding hers across the small flame between them. "Like husband and wife making life together in kitchen."



The comparison struck her as both inappropriate and oddly touching. This man—this elderly peon who cleaned the corridors she walked through each day—had shown her more desire in one evening than Anand had in years of marriage.



Lightning flashed, illuminating the small room more brightly than the candles, followed by a growl of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the modest dwelling. Devika glanced toward the window, where rain continued to lash against the glass.



"We should sleep," she said, setting down her last piece of paratha. "It's getting late, and the storm shows no sign of stopping."



Ganapathi nodded, wiping his hands on a small cloth. "Yes, madam. You must be tired." He hesitated, glancing toward the door that led to the bedroom. "There is only one bed in my home."



"Oh," Devika said, the implications of their situation suddenly crystallizing. Of course there would be only one bed—this was a bachelor's dwelling, not designed for guests.



"You can take bed," Ganapathi continued, gesturing toward the bedroom. "I will sleep here on floor."



"No, that's not necessary," she protested. "I can sleep out here. It's your home, your bed."



"Not possible," he said firmly, shaking his head. "You are guest today. In my culture, guest is like god. You must take bed." His voice softened. "Besides, floor is not good for beautiful woman's back. Old man like me used to hardship."



There was something disarming about his insistence, about the strange chivalry that existed alongside his earlier desire. Devika found herself nodding, accepting his sacrifice even as guilt pricked at her conscience.



"Thank you," she said simply.



Ganapathi rose, clearing their plates with efficient movements. Then he led her to the bedroom, lighting another candle inside. He pulled fresh sheets from a small trunk—carefully preserved linens that appeared newer than anything else in the modest home.



"Clean sheets," he explained, unfolding them over the narrow bed. "Kept for special occasions."



Devika watched as he prepared the bed for her, his movements methodical and practiced. There was something touching about his efforts to make her comfortable, to offer the best of his meager possessions. Yet she couldn't help wondering if this solicitousness was genuine or merely a performance designed to impress her—a courtesy he might never have extended to the wife who had abandoned him for another man.



As if responding to her thoughts, the lights suddenly flickered on, electricity returning as unexpectedly as it had departed. The harsh bulb hanging from the ceiling cast the room in stark relief, exposing the shabby corners that candlelight had kindly concealed.



"Ah! Power is back," Ganapathi said, blinking in the sudden brightness. He gestured toward a small switch near the bed. "You can turn off when ready to sleep."



He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Good night, madam," he said, his voice carrying a note of reluctance. "If you need anything, I am just outside."



"Good night, Ganapathi," she replied. "And thank you again."



He nodded, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the small room.



Alone at last, Devika sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers over the clean but worn sheets. There was something profoundly strange about preparing to sleep in another man's bed—a bed where he had lain night after night, year after year. The knowledge felt intimate in a way that even his touch had not.



She switched off the light, preferring the gentle anonymity of candlelight. As she lay back against the pillow, her mind wandered to the peculiar path her life had taken these past weeks. Three older men—Ramlal, Seenu, and now Ganapathi—had crossed boundaries with her that she would never have imagined permitting before.



All three shared certain qualities: their age, their lower social position relative to hers, their habit of chewing paan that left their teeth stained red. In Kerala, she had always found paan-chewing repulsive, the red-stained teeth a mark of lower class and questionable hygiene. Yet now these three men had tasted her skin with those same paan-stained mouths, had marked her body with their desire.



Still, she had maintained one critical boundary—her lips remained unkissed. In her mind, a kiss on the lips represented an intimacy that transcended the physical, a gateway to deeper connection that she wasn't prepared to cross. Anand had never been much of a kisser, offering only brief, dry pecks during their infrequent lovemaking.



But her mind drifted to a pornographic film she had glimpsed once, where the actors had engaged in passionate kissing—open mouths, exploring tongues, an exchange of saliva that seemed both repulsive and magnetically compelling. The thought of such a kiss with any of these men—of Ganapathi's paan-flavored tongue pushing into her mouth, of the mingled taste of spices and tobacco—made her shudder with a confused mixture of disgust and forbidden curiosity.



She pressed her face into the pillow, trying to escape her own thoughts. The clean sheets carried a faint scent of sunshine and cheap detergent, a small kindness in this strange night that seemed determined to unravel everything she had once believed about herself.





# Scene 2





In the narrow hallway, Ganapathi lay on his thin mat, sleep a distant possibility. His body still hummed with the memory of Devika's flesh beneath his fingers—the soft give of her waist, the generous curve of her hips, the silken texture of skin so different from his rough hands. Never in his sixty years had he imagined such fortune, that a woman like her—educated, refined, beautiful—would allow his touch, would arch into his caresses as if hungry for more. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within him, desire coursing through his veins with each crash of thunder, each flash of lightning illuminating fantasies he could no longer contain.



He shifted on the hard floor, the thin mat offering little comfort to his aging bones. Yet physical discomfort was nothing compared to the exquisite torture of knowing she lay just behind that door, wrapped in his sheets, her body still clad in his wife's clothes. The thought made him harden instantly—the professor wearing garments that had once belonged to the woman who had abandoned him, as if the universe had granted him a replacement far superior to what he had lost.



Since joining the college weeks ago, Devika had occupied his thoughts daily. He had watched her walk through corridors, the elegant sway of her saree-dbangd hips mesmerizing him from afar. He had imagined scenarios where they might speak, might touch, but never had he dared hope for what this night had brought—her weight on his lap in the auto, her body pressed against his in the kitchen, her permission to explore her waist and hips with hungry hands.



His hand slipped beneath his lungi almost of its own accord, finding the hardness there. He wrapped weathered fingers around himself, his breathing quickening as he began to stroke. His mind filled with images of Devika—not as she had been moments ago in his kitchen, but as she might be if circumstances were different. He imagined her saree falling away completely, imagined her turning to face him, placing his hands on the fullness of her breasts instead of just her waist.



"Devika," he whispered into the darkness, his hand moving faster. "Beautiful Devika."



The sensation built quickly, his body responding to fantasies he'd harbored since first seeing her. In his mind, she was no longer a respected professor but a woman surrendering to desire, begging for his touch, moaning his name as he claimed her. His breathing grew ragged, his strokes more urgent, the thunder outside providing cover for the soft moans that escaped his lips.



In the bedroom, Devika had finally drifted into uneasy sleep, wrapped tightly in the borrowed bedsheet. The unfamiliar surroundings—the slightly musty smell of the pillow, the narrowness of the bed, the persistent sound of rain—had made slumber elusive. But exhaustion had eventually overcome discomfort, pulling her into shallow dreams.



A deafening crack of thunder, so close it seemed to split the air directly above the small house, jolted her awake. She sat up with a gasp, heart pounding painfully against her ribs, disoriented in the unfamiliar darkness. Another flash of lightning illuminated the small room, casting strange shadows across the walls before plunging her back into blackness.



Fear—primal and overwhelming—gripped her chest. Since childhood, thunderstorms had terrified her, the unpredictable violence of nature's fury reducing her to a trembling child regardless of her adult rationality. In her apartment, she would have turned on all the lights, played music to drown out the thunder, called her friend Saradha for distraction. Here, she had none of those comforts.



Another thunderclap shook the small house, and Devika found herself on her feet, moving toward the door before conscious thought could intervene. She needed company, needed the reassurance of another human presence to anchor her against the storm's fury. Her hand found the doorknob, turning it quietly as she stepped into the hallway.



The space was dimly lit by a small emergency lamp Ganapathi had placed on a shelf. In its faint glow, she saw him immediately—lying on his mat, one hand moving rhythmically beneath his lungi, his face contorted in an expression of pleasure. The sounds coming from him were unmistakable, as was the name that fell from his lips: "Devika... yes... beautiful Devika."



She froze, her fear of the storm momentarily displaced by shock. She had never witnessed a man pleasuring himself before—not her husband, not anyone. The raw intimacy of the moment, the knowledge that she was the object of his fantasy, sent conflicting waves of disgust and aroused curiosity through her body.



Ganapathi continued, unaware of her presence, his movements growing more urgent. Devika knew she should retreat, should return to the bedroom and pretend she'd seen nothing. Yet she remained rooted to the spot, a strange fascination overcoming her initial shock. There was something compelling about his unfiltered desire, about being wanted with such desperation that he would seek release in this furtive, solitary way.



Another crash of thunder broke the spell. Devika jumped, a small sound escaping her lips. Realizing she couldn't continue watching undetected, she cleared her throat deliberately. "Hmm, hmm."



Ganapathi's reaction was immediate—his body jerking upright, hand withdrawing from his lungi with panicked speed, eyes wide with horror as they found her standing in the doorway. "Madam!" he gasped, scrambling to adjust his clothing. "I—I didn't—"



"The climate seems to be having quite an effect," Devika said, summoning a strained smile, attempting to navigate this excruciating moment with whatever dignity she could muster.



"Sorry, madam," Ganapathi stammered, his face contorted with shame. "I didn't notice you there. I thought you were sleeping."



"I was," she confirmed, stepping further into the room, pretending interest in the rain visible through the window rather than looking at him directly. "Were you thinking of some actress?"



The question surprised even herself—a peculiar mixture of genuine curiosity and desire to ease his embarrassment by acknowledging rather than ignoring what she'd witnessed.



Ganapathi's response came without hesitation, despite his evident mortification. "No, madam. Why would I think of actresses with fake beauty when you are here?"



The blunt honesty of his answer sent a flush of heat through her body. She should have been offended, should have been disgusted that this aging peon was using her image for his pleasure. Instead, she felt a forbidden thrill, a dark satisfaction in being desired so completely.



"Why aren't you sleeping, madam?" he asked, clearly eager to change the subject.



Devika fumbled for words, her original purpose in seeking him out suddenly difficult to articulate. "I—the thunder," she finally managed, another crash from outside punctuating her words. "Since childhood, I've had this terrible fear of thunderstorms."



"Ah," Ganapathi nodded, his expression softening with understanding. "It's natural to have such fears. Many people do."



Lightning flashed again, illuminating the small space with harsh white light. Devika flinched visibly, her body tensing as she waited for the inevitable thunder that followed seconds later. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with her state of dress or what she had just witnessed.



"I can't sleep alone," she admitted, the words emerging more desperate than intended. "Not with the storm like this."



The implication hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging the odd intimacy of the situation—her having caught him masturbating to thoughts of her, now seeking his protection against childish fears.



"I know this is strange," she continued, her voice small against the drumming rain. "But would it be okay if I slept out here? Near you?"



Ganapathi couldn't hide his astonishment, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. A beautiful professor, the same woman who had been the object of his fantasy moments earlier, was asking permission to sleep beside him. He swallowed hard, trying to comprehend this unexpected turn of events.



"You want to sleep here? Next to me?" he asked, disbelief evident in each word.



"If that's all right," she replied, another crash of thunder causing her to start. "I just—I can't be alone right now."



Ganapathi nodded slowly, still looking bewildered by her request. "I have no problem, madam," he said carefully. "If you are okay with that."



His emphasis on her comfort, his apparent concern that she might be compromising herself for him rather than the other way around, touched something in Devika. Even in this most awkward of moments, even after what she had witnessed, he maintained a strange kind of respect for her boundaries.



"Thank you," she whispered, relief flooding through her as another flash of lightning illuminated his weathered face.





# Scene 3



Devika lowered herself to the floor beside Ganapathi, the thin mat offering little cushioning against the hard concrete beneath. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, the bedsheet wrapped tightly around her shoulders, a fragile barrier between them. "Thank you," she said softly. "Now I can sleep." The storm continued its assault outside, rain lashing against the windows, but already its terror had diminished with the simple comfort of human proximity. She stretched out beside him, maintaining a careful distance, their bodies like parallel lines not meant to touch.



They lay facing each other in the dim light of the emergency lamp, Ganapathi's weathered face mere inches from hers. The arrangement felt startlingly intimate—more so, somehow, than when his hands had explored her waist in the kitchen. This quiet sharing of space, of breath, of vulnerability, crossed boundaries that physical touch alone could not breach.



Devika closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the strangeness of lying beside a man who was neither her husband nor family. The floor was hard beneath her hip, the thin mat providing minimal comfort. She shifted slightly, trying to find a position that wouldn't leave her aching by morning.



"Your face is very charming in this light," Ganapathi said suddenly, his voice barely audible above the rain.



Devika's eyes snapped open to find him watching her intently, his gaze traveling over her features with unconcealed admiration. Despite everything that had passed between them—his hands on her body, her witnessing his most private moment—this quiet study of her face felt unexpectedly intimate.



"You should sleep," she replied, uncomfortable with his scrutiny yet strangely flattered. "Not stare at me."



"How can I sleep?" he asked simply. "When beautiful professor is lying next to me? This is better than dreams."



A small smile curved her lips despite herself. "You need to sleep, not flirt," she admonished gently.



They lapsed into silence, both attempting to find comfort on the unyielding floor. The storm showed no signs of abating, rain hammering against the tin roof in persistent waves. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the small space, followed by the rumble of thunder that made Devika instinctively edge closer to Ganapathi's solid presence.



After several minutes, she noticed his body trembling slightly. At first, she thought it might be suppressed desire, some continuation of what she had interrupted earlier. But as she watched him more closely, she realized he was shivering from cold. While she lay wrapped in the bedsheet, he had nothing but his thin clothes to protect him from the chill that accompanied the storm.



"Ganapathi," she called softly. "You're cold."



He shook his head, though another shiver belied his denial. "No problem, madam. I'm fine."



"You're shivering," she insisted. "Here, take the bedsheet. It's yours anyway."



"No, no," he refused immediately. "You keep it. I cannot take from you."



"Please," Devika said, already beginning to unwrap the sheet from around herself. "I can manage without it. You take it."



"Madam," Ganapathi's voice grew firmer. "I am used to sleeping on platforms at railway station during my younger days. This is luxury for me." His teeth chattered slightly, undermining his stoic claim.



Devika frowned, unwilling to accept his sacrifice. The thought of him shivering through the night while she remained comfortable struck her as deeply wrong. Yet she also recognized the chill in the air, knew she would be equally cold without the covering.



A solution presented itself in her mind—obvious yet audacious. Her heart began to race as she contemplated suggesting it, knowing it would cross yet another boundary in their rapidly evolving relationship. She took a deep breath, steadying herself for what she was about to propose.



"If you don't mind," she began, her voice emerging higher than normal, "we could share the bedsheet."



Ganapathi's eyes widened, magnified behind his thick glasses. "Share?" he repeated, as if uncertain he had heard correctly.



"Yes, share," she confirmed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "There's room enough for both of us under one sheet."



He stared at her in obvious disbelief, his expression suggesting he was searching for some hidden meaning in her offer. "You want to share bedsheet with me?"



"Yes," she said simply. "I don't want to see someone shivering in cold. If you don't like the idea, then we can both go without. I'll be cold too."



She began unwrapping the sheet again, making good on her threat. Ganapathi's hand shot out, stopping her with a gentle touch on her arm.



"No, madam, please. You don't need to be cold." He hesitated, conflict evident in his expression. "But what if someone finds out? They will talk badly about you."



Devika hadn't expected this concern for her reputation, this protective instinct from a man she had caught pleasuring himself to thoughts of her just minutes earlier. Something softened within her.



"No one will know about this," she assured him. "It's just about staying warm."



Ganapathi nodded slowly, his expression still cautious. "Okay, then. We will share."



A smile touched Devika's lips, relieved by his agreement. "Come," she said, lifting the edge of the bedsheet in invitation.



He moved closer with obvious trepidation, sliding carefully beneath the offered covering. They lay facing each other, their bodies still maintaining a small distance, hands folded awkwardly against their own chests. Their fingertips brushed occasionally, each contact sending a small jolt through Devika's body. Despite the increased proximity, the sheet pulled tight between them, creating gaps where cold air seeped in.



"This isn't working," Devika observed after a moment. "The sheet can't cover us both with this gap between us."



Ganapathi remained silent, clearly unwilling to suggest the obvious solution. Devika took another deep breath, gathering her courage for what came next.



"I'll turn around," she said decisively. "And you can... hold me from behind. That way we'll both fit under the sheet."



The silence that followed her suggestion felt weighted with meaning, with possibility. She could almost hear Ganapathi's rapid heartbeat matching her own.



"Like... cuddling?" he asked finally, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.



"Yes," she confirmed, already turning away from him, presenting her back. "It's the only practical solution."



She positioned herself with her back toward him, waiting. Ganapathi moved closer but didn't make contact, hovering just behind her as if afraid to cross this final threshold.



"Hug me," Devika instructed, her voice betraying more impatience than she intended. When he still hesitated, she added, "Hold me like a husband hugs a wife when they cuddle."



The comparison fell from her lips before she could consider its implications, its inappropriateness. She heard Ganapathi's sharp intake of breath, felt him freeze behind her.



"Please don't talk, just hold me," she amended quickly, embarrassed by her own words. Without waiting for his response, she reached back, found his arm, and pulled it around her waist, pressing herself backward until her body met his.



The contact was electric—her back against his chest, her buttocks nestled against his groin, his arm encircling her waist over the dbangd saree. Ganapathi released a shaky breath against her neck as his body molded to hers, his arm tightening instinctively around her middle.



Almost immediately, she felt him hardening against her, his body's response to their proximity impossible to hide in this position. He began to pull away, clearly embarrassed, but Devika held his arm firmly in place.



"It's okay," she whispered. "I understand. No man can control that when... when holding someone like me."



Her acknowledgment seemed to both embarrass and relieve him. Ganapathi relaxed slightly, his face settling against the back of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. He held her with surprising gentleness, his hand resting carefully at her waist, maintaining the most respectful embrace possible given their intimate position.



The storm outside seemed to recede further into the background, replaced by the sound of their breathing gradually synchronizing, by the warmth building between their bodies. Devika felt safer than she had all night, the thunder no longer causing her to flinch. There was something profoundly comforting about being held this way—something she had missed during the long months of Anand's absence.



A feeling of gratitude washed over her—for Ganapathi's respectful embrace, for his earlier attentions to her body, for the way he maintained boundaries even in his obvious desire. Acting on impulse, she covered his hand with hers where it rested at her waist. Then, slowly, deliberately, she guided it beneath the edge of her saree, placing his palm against the bare skin of her stomach.



Ganapathi's breath caught, his body tensing behind her. "Madam," he whispered, the word somewhere between question and reverence.



"Shh," she soothed, keeping her hand over his, holding it in place against her skin. "Just feel the warmth. Hold your hand still."



His palm was hot against her belly, his fingers splayed just below her navel. Unlike earlier in the kitchen, he made no attempt to explore or caress, keeping his hand motionless as instructed. The restraint touched her deeply—this man who desired her so intensely was willing to accept whatever boundaries she established, finding gratitude in the small intimacies she allowed rather than pushing for more.



She felt his face press more firmly against her neck, his breath evening out as he relaxed into their embrace. His thumb moved once, almost imperceptibly, tracing the edge of her navel before returning to stillness. The small gesture sent ripples of pleasure through her body, but she made no comment, allowing him this tiny liberty.



As they lay entwined on the thin mat, the storm gradually receding into the distance, Devika found herself thinking that this moment—this simple act of being held by someone who desired her, who saw her—felt more intimate than anything she had experienced in years of marriage. Here, on a hard floor in a humble dwelling, with rain pattering against the roof and thunder rumbling in the distance, she had found a connection she hadn't realized she was missing.



She drifted toward sleep, Ganapathi's hand warm against her skin, his breathing deep and regular against her neck. Their unlikely intimacy, born of storm and circumstance, carried her gently into dreams that for once contained no thunder, no fear, only the quiet certainty of being truly held.

[exbiixossip2]

very very hot update brother

kya jaan lene ka irada hai...

with hot pics

[Thilka]

Great

[jakdommy5655]

wow, what an update.

[santhu304]

Excellent

[Emulove]

Bro update plz.......

[Manikandarajesh]

Great update

[tamannanav]

no sex only seduction itself is crazy good
wat a creativity dude
waiting for ramlal,sreenu episodes
she giving permission too hot to handle
madly waiting for update

[Thilka]

Where is the update

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over the two figures entwined on the floor. Devika lay sprawled across Ganapathi's chest, her right arm dbangd over him, one leg hooked between his thighs. Her saree had ridden up during the night, exposing the smooth curve of her calf. The pallu that should have covered her torso had come completely unwrapped, fluttering like an abandoned flag beside them. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck, while he slept on his back, face tilted toward the ceiling, unaware of how intimately their bodies had entangled in sleep.



Devika's eyelids fluttered, consciousness returning in slow waves. First came the unfamiliar warmth beneath her cheek, then the rhythmic rise and fall that didn't match her mattress. Her eyes opened fully, focus sharpening on the weathered neck inches from her face, the paan-stained beard that tickled her forehead. Recognition crashed through her drowsy haze like cold water.



"Oh my God," she whispered, horrified awareness jolting through her body.



She lifted her head carefully, taking in their tangled position with widening eyes. Sometime during the night, their careful side-by-side arrangement had transformed into this—her dbangd across him like a wife of many years, comfortable and possessive in her unconscious claiming of his body. Her leg was thrown carelessly between his, her saree hiked scandalously high. Worse, Ganapathi's hand still rested on her bare stomach where she had placed it last night, his fingers splayed across her skin in unconscious intimacy.



Devika extracted herself with careful movements, lifting his arm from her waist and sliding her leg from between his. Ganapathi stirred but didn't wake, his breathing remaining deep and regular. Once free, she stood quickly, tugging her disheveled saree back into place, wrapping the wayward pallu across her shoulder with trembling fingers.



Her face burned as she looked down at him—this elderly peon from her college, sleeping peacefully on his thin mat, unaware of how completely she had abandoned herself to his embrace during the night. The storm had passed, morning sunlight streaming through the windows, revealing the room's shabby details with unforgiving clarity. What had seemed necessary in the storm's darkness now felt like madness in daylight.



She moved quietly to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her clothes from yesterday hung over the rope line, still damp but wearable. She removed the borrowed saree carefully, folding it with reverent hands. It had served its purpose, this garment of another woman, but now she needed to reclaim her own identity, her own boundaries.



As she dressed in her damp clothes, Devika caught fragments of her reflection in a small cracked mirror hanging on the wall. There were marks on her waist—faint bruises where Ganapathi's fingers had pressed too eagerly during their kitchen encounter. Evidence that couldn't be folded away like the borrowed saree.



When she emerged from the bedroom, Ganapathi was no longer on the mat. The sound of a spoon clinking against metal drew her attention to the kitchen alcove, where he stood preparing coffee, his back to her. Something about the domesticity of the scene—this man making morning coffee after she had slept in his arms—sent a pang through her chest, an emotion she couldn't quite name.



"Good morning," she said softly.



Ganapathi turned, his face lighting with a smile that transformed his weathered features. "Ah, madam! Good morning. I am making coffee for you. Please, sit."



He gestured toward the chair, the same one where she had sat last night while he prepared their dinner. She settled into it, noting how different the small room looked in daylight—less mysterious, more humble. Ganapathi brought two steaming cups to the table, setting one before her with a careful movement that suggested he was still in awe of her presence in his home.



"You slept well?" he asked, lowering himself onto the edge of his bed across from her.



"Yes," she admitted, her fingers curling around the warm cup. "Better than I expected."



"Storm is gone now," he observed, gesturing toward the window where sunlight streamed through. "All clear."



"Yes," Devika agreed, taking a sip of the sweet, milky coffee. "Ganapathi, about last night..."



"Madam, I know," he interrupted, his expression suddenly serious. "You don't need to say. What happened here stays here only. No one at college will know from me."



Relief washed through her. "Thank you. That's important to me."



"I understand," he nodded solemnly. "Your position, your respect. I would never do anything to damage."



They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment, the unspoken intimacy of the night hanging between them. Ganapathi's eyes kept darting to her face, then away, as if he couldn't quite believe she was still there, sitting at his table in the morning light.



"Madam," he began hesitantly, setting down his cup. "I was wondering..."



"Yes?" Devika prompted when he faltered.



"Is it possible—" he licked his lips nervously, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his cup. "Could we have moments like this again? Sometimes?"



The question hung in the air, loaded with hope and desire. Devika stared at him, this man who had held her through the storm, whose touch had awakened sensations she had almost forgotten.



"Ganapathi," she said gently, "what happened yesterday was... unusual circumstances. I was stranded, afraid of the storm. We didn't have a choice."



His face fell, disappointment etching deeper lines around his eyes. "I understand, madam. I shouldn't have asked."



The sight of his crestfallen expression tugged at something in Devika. She remembered how tenderly he had held her, how he had maintained the boundaries she set even in his obvious desire.



"But," she continued, surprising herself, "I understand loneliness. I see it in you because I feel it too." She paused, weighing her words carefully. "I can't promise anything, but... I will try. For moments, perhaps. Not like this exactly, but something."



Ganapathi's eyes widened, hope blooming across his face like a sudden sunrise. "Really, madam? You will try?"



"Yes," she said, firmer now. "But you must never take advantage. Never push for more than I'm willing to give. Do you understand?"



"Yes, yes," he nodded eagerly, his hands making emphatic gestures. "I understand perfectly. Whatever you give is blessing for me."



Devika finished her coffee and stood, gathering her shopping bags. The contents had dried overnight, though the paper was wrinkled beyond salvation. "I should go now."



Ganapathi rose quickly, moving to open the door for her. As she stepped past him into the morning sunlight, his eyes followed her movements with undisguised appreciation, lingering on the sway of her hips beneath the damp saree.



"Thank you for the shelter," she said formally, slipping on her heels that had dried by the door. "And the coffee."



"Anytime, madam," Ganapathi replied, his voice carrying a weight of meaning beyond the simple words. He stood in the doorway, watching as she walked away, his expression a mixture of disbelief and adoration.



As Devika moved down the narrow lane, feeling Ganapathi's eyes on her back, she heard him mutter something behind her, words she wasn't meant to hear:



"Goodness, what a stunning woman she is."



expressing his marvel at her as a "hot woman"—should have offended her. Instead, a small smile played at the corners of her lips as she continued walking, her damp saree clinging to curves that had brought such wonder to an old man's eyes.





# Scene 2



The sun had climbed higher in the sky by the time Devika approached her apartment building, casting shortened shadows across the recently flooded streets. Water still pooled in the deeper potholes, reflecting fragments of blue sky like scattered mirrors. As she neared the entrance gate, a familiar figure rose from the security chair—Ramlal, his posture stiffening at the sight of her, relief and concern mingling in his expression. His eyes took in her rumpled appearance, the shopping bags with their obviously water-damaged contents, the slight disarray of her hair despite her attempts to smooth it.



"Madam," he called, moving toward her with unusual urgency. "You are okay? I was worried when you didn't come home last night."



Devika paused, surprised by his concern. She hadn't considered that her absence would be noticed, much less cause worry. "I'm fine, Ramlal. Just got caught in the storm."



He nodded, his eyes traveling over her damp saree, the slight smudge of kohl beneath her eyes. "I knocked on your door last evening when rain started getting bad. When you didn't answer, I thought maybe you were sleeping. But this morning also, no sign of you." His voice carried a note of genuine concern that touched her unexpectedly.



The lie formed in her mind with surprising ease. "I was at Saradha's place," she said, her voice steady despite the falsehood. "I was shopping in Tulsi Baug when the storm hit. Her flat was closer, so I stayed there."



Ramlal's face relaxed, relief evident in the slight drop of his shoulders. "Good thing, madam. The weather was quite terrible.. Very dangerous to be outside." He gestured toward the street where debris from the storm still littered the sidewalks. "Roads were completely flooded. Electricity also gone whole night."



"Yes, we lost power too," Devika said, the partial truth easier to deliver. "Luckily I was... safe." The word caught slightly in her throat as images flashed through her mind—Ganapathi's hands on her waist, his body pressed against her back as they prepared dinner, his arm around her as they slept.



"Good, good," Ramlal nodded, then glanced toward her shopping bags. "Your things got wet?"



"Some of them," she admitted. "Nothing important."



An awkward silence fell between them, laden with unspoken thoughts. Ramlal shifted his weight, his eyes moving over her face with an intensity that suggested he was searching for something—perhaps signs of where she had truly been, perhaps simply reassurance that she was indeed unharmed.



"Thank you for your concern," Devika said finally, offering a small smile. "I should go up now. Need to change out of these damp clothes."



"Yes, madam. Of course." He stepped aside, though his eyes followed her as she moved past him toward the stairs. "If you need anything, I am here."



The words echoed those Ganapathi had spoken last night, creating an odd parallel that wasn't lost on Devika. Two older men, both offering service, both seeing more in her than their positions should allow. She nodded in acknowledgment and began climbing the stairs, feeling Ramlal's gaze on her back until she turned the corner out of sight.



Inside her apartment, Devika set down her shopping bags and leaned against the closed door, exhaling deeply. The familiar surroundings seemed almost surreal after the strange intimacy of Ganapathi's home. She moved through the rooms, turning on lights, touching familiar objects as if to reacquaint herself with her own life.



In the bathroom, she peeled off her damp saree, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. Her blouse and petticoat followed, until she stood naked before the mirror, examining herself with new eyes. The marks on her waist had darkened slightly—purple-blue imprints of Ganapathi's fingers where he had kneaded her flesh with too much enthusiasm. She traced them lightly, the slight tenderness a physical reminder of what had transpired.



The hot water of the shower washed away the last traces of Ganapathi's home—the lingering scent of his cheap soap, the faint mustiness of his sheets, the memory of sweat that had formed between their bodies as they slept pressed together on the thin mat. Yet even as the water sluiced over her skin, Devika found the memories refusing to dissolve.



She dried herself carefully, applied sandalwood-scented lotion to her skin, and dressed in a fresh saree—forest green with a gold border, crisp and proper. The familiar routine should have restored her sense of self, her place in the world. Instead, her mind kept returning to the previous night, to moments that seemed dreamlike in their improbability.



Seated on her sofa with a cup of tea, Devika allowed herself to fully examine what had happened. "I sat on an old man's lap," she whispered to the empty room, testing how the truth sounded aloud. "I let the college peon touch me intimately."



The facts, stated plainly, should have filled her with shame. Instead, she found herself remembering the genuine pleasure of Ganapathi's reverent touch, the way his hands had caressed her waist with such appreciation, as if touching something precious.



"He kissed my shoulders," she continued, fingers moving unconsciously to the spot where his paan-stained lips had pressed against her skin. "He licked me like I was something delicious."



Heat spread across her chest at the memory—Ganapathi's tongue tracing patterns on her bare back, his breath hot against her neck, his beard scratching lightly against her sensitive skin. She had permitted these liberties, had even encouraged them with her reactions, her small movements that pressed her body more firmly against his.



"I slept with him all night," she murmured, the words carrying multiple meanings though nothing sexual had occurred between them. "I slept in his arms like a wife."



This fact perhaps disturbed her most—not the touches or caresses, which could be dismissed as momentary weakness, but the comfort she had found in his embrace. The way she had nestled against him through the night, her body seeking his warmth, her head finding the perfect hollow of his shoulder. The way she had placed his hand against her bare stomach, inviting an intimacy that went beyond mere physical contact.



"He held me tighter than Anand ever did," she admitted, and the truth of it stung. Her husband's embraces had always been perfunctory, a prelude to sleep or sex rather than an act of connection in itself. Ganapathi had held her as if she might disappear, as if the mere fact of her presence in his arms was miraculous.



Devika sipped her tea, her thoughts circling back to the morning—waking dbangd across his body, her leg thrown possessively over his, her head on his chest. The position of a woman who had surrendered completely to comfort, to trust.



"He's a dirty old man who chews paan," she reminded herself sternly. "A college peon. What am I doing?"



Yet even as she formed the words, she remembered the kindness in his eyes, the reverence in his touch, the way he had maintained the boundaries she set even in his obvious desire. The way he had looked at her this morning, as if she had given him a gift beyond price simply by existing in his space.



Devika closed her eyes, confused by her own reactions. Sometimes she hated herself for these new explorations, these boundaries crossed with men who should have remained invisible to her. Sometimes she felt shy, almost girlish, at the memory of their desire, their appreciation of her body. But increasingly, she felt something else—a power awakening, a realization that her life contained possibilities she had never imagined before the storm.





# Scene 3



Monday morning arrived with clear skies that betrayed no evidence of the weekend's violent storm. Devika stepped through the college gates, her navy blue silk saree wrapped immaculately around her body, her hair twisted into a neat bun secured with jasmine flowers. She carried herself with practiced poise, her face composed into the serene expression expected of a respected professor. No outward sign revealed the turmoil within—the memories of Ganapathi's hands on her waist, of sleeping in his arms through the storm-wracked night, of waking dbangd across his body in unconscious intimacy.



In the staff room, Saradha looked up from her desk, her face brightening. "Devika! Thank goodness you're all right. I tried calling you all weekend."



Devika settled into her chair, arranging her saree with careful movements. "The network was down," she explained, a partial truth. "And I lost power for most of Saturday night."



"This storm was terrible," Saradha agreed, leaning closer. "Did you get caught in it? I heard Tulsi Baug was completely flooded."



A flicker of alarm passed through Devika. How did Saradha know she'd been at Tulsi Baug? Then she remembered mentioning her shopping plans to her friend on Friday.



"No, I didn't go out," she lied smoothly. "I stayed home all weekend. The weather forecast warned it would be bad, so I just stayed in with books and candles when the power went out." She busied herself with arranging papers on her desk, avoiding Saradha's eyes.



"Smart decision," Saradha nodded. "I was worried about flooding in my building's ground floor. The security guard had to stay up all night moving people's scooters to higher ground."



Devika made appropriate noises of concern, her thoughts drifting to Ramlal and his evident worry for her safety. Then, inevitably, to Ganapathi. She glanced around the staff room, noting his absence. He usually brought tea to the faculty around this time, moving quietly from desk to desk with a tray of steaming cups.



"Where is Ganapathi today?" she asked, aiming for casual interest.



"Called in sick," one of the male professors replied without looking up from his newspaper. "Probably caught cold in that rain. Old men should know better than to be out in such weather."



Devika felt her cheeks warm, knowing exactly where Ganapathi had been during the storm—with her, his hands exploring her waist, his body pressed against hers as they slept on his thin mat. Had he called in sick to avoid facing her? Or was he truly unwell after their night together?



The bell rang, saving her from further conversation. Devika gathered her teaching materials and headed to her first class of the day. As she walked through the corridors, she found herself looking for Ganapathi's familiar figure—sweeping the floors, delivering files, his eyes finding hers with that secret knowledge they now shared. His absence left an unexpected hollow in her day.



In the classroom, her third-year students waited, including Pathan and Vishnu, seated in their usual places near the front. Their eyes tracked her movement as she entered, lingering on the graceful sweep of her saree, the curve of her waist where it disappeared into the pleats at her hip. Devika felt their gaze like a physical touch, warming her skin beneath the silk.



"Good morning, class," she began, setting her books on the desk. "Today we'll be discussing cellular adaptation to environmental stress—how living cells respond to changes in their surroundings."



As she lectured, Devika found herself moving differently, more aware of her body as an object of desire. When she turned to write on the blackboard, she allowed her saree to pull slightly tighter across her hips. When she walked between the rows of desks, she paused fractionally longer beside Pathan and Vishnu, letting them catch the scent of jasmine from her hair, the subtle perfume at her wrist.



"Pathan," she called, catching his eyes lingering on the curve where her blouse met her saree. "Perhaps you can explain the process of osmotic regulation?"



He straightened, momentarily flustered at being singled out. "Yes, Professor. Osmotic regulation is the control of water balance between the cell and its environment."



She smiled, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. "Very good. And Vishnu, what happens when a cell faces prolonged stress?"



Vishnu cleared his throat, his voice slightly rougher than usual. "The cell either adapts or dies, Professor. If it adapts, it undergoes structural changes to survive the new conditions."



"Precisely," she nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "Adaptation or death. No other options."



After the lecture, the class transitioned to the laboratory for practical work. Devika watched as students paired up at workstations, preparing microscope slides of cells subjected to various environmental stressors. She moved through the room, offering guidance, her fingers occasionally brushing against a student's hand, her presence lingering beside certain workstations.



"Professor," Pathan called, "I think there's something wrong with my microscope. The image isn't clear."



Devika moved to his station, aware of the eyes that followed her progress across the room. She leaned over Pathan's shoulder, her body close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her.



"Let me see," she murmured, bending to look through the eyepiece. Her face came dangerously near his, her cheek almost brushing his as they both positioned themselves at the microscope. She adjusted the focus knob, her fingers brushing his where they rested on the instrument.



"You need to adjust the fine focus," she explained, her breath warm against his ear. "Like this."



Pathan remained perfectly still, as if afraid the slightest movement might shatter this moment of proximity. His face was so close to hers that he could discern individual jasmine petals in her hair, could smell the faint mint on her breath as she spoke.



"Do you see it now?" she asked, her lips mere inches from his cheek.



"Yes," he managed, his voice strained. "Much clearer now."



She straightened slowly, allowing her saree pallu to slide across his shoulder as she moved away. "Good. Continue your observations."



Across the lab, Vishnu watched this exchange with poorly concealed jealousy. Devika caught his eye and offered a small smile that promised his turn would come. She continued circulating among the students, occasionally glancing at the high shelf where specialized equipment was stored.



Finally, she approached Vishnu's workstation. "I need the Gram stain kit," she said, gesturing toward the top shelf. "But it's rather high up."



Vishnu followed her gaze to the shelf well above her reach. "Should I get the stepladder from the storage room, Professor?"



Devika glanced around the lab, noting that most students were absorbed in their work, their attention directed to their microscopes. "No, that would take too long. Could you lift me? Just for a moment?"



Vishnu's eyes widened, his breath catching visibly. "Lift you, Professor?"



"Yes," she nodded, her voice matter-of-fact despite the inappropriate request. "I'm quite light, and it would be the quickest solution."



Vishnu hesitated, conflict evident in his expression—desire warring with disbelief at what she was suggesting.



"Unless you'd prefer I ask someone else," Devika added, a slight challenge in her tone.



"No, no," he said quickly. "I can do it."



He bent slightly, wrapping his arms awkwardly around her waist. Devika placed her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself as he straightened, lifting her off the ground. Her waist was directly in front of his face now, the pleats of her saree opening slightly with the upward movement, offering glimpses of her petticoat beneath.



"A little higher," she instructed, her voice soft but commanding.



Vishnu adjusted his grip, his hands sliding down to support her better, fingers pressing into the softness of her buttocks through the saree. He gave a small jerk upward, lifting her higher, causing her to gasp slightly at the sudden movement.



"Yes, that's perfect," she murmured, reaching for the shelf.



Vishnu stood frozen, unable to believe his position—holding his professor aloft, her thighs partially exposed where the saree had ridden up, her waist at his eye level. He could smell the sandalwood lotion on her skin, could feel the curves of her body against his arms and chest. The situation was so beyond his expectations that it felt like a fever dream.



Devika took longer than necessary to locate the kit, allowing Vishnu to experience the full weight and feel of her body in his arms. When she finally grasped it, she looked down at him. "You can lower me now."



Instead of simply setting her down, Vishnu slowly slid her body down along his, creating a full-length contact that sent electricity through both of them. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her stomach against his, their faces momentarily aligned as she descended. Even when her feet touched the ground, he didn't immediately release her, one hand lingering at her waist, the other resting lightly against the curve of her buttock.



"Thank you, Vishnu," she said softly, making no immediate move to step away from his hold.



They stood together for a heartbeat too long, bodies nearly touching, his hand still possessively at her waist. Around them, the laboratory continued its normal activities, though a few students had noticed the unusually intimate interaction between professor and student.



"You should let go now," Devika finally whispered, though her tone carried no real rebuke.



Vishnu seemed to come back to himself, withdrawing his hands reluctantly. "Sorry, Professor," he mumbled, though his eyes said he wasn't sorry at all.



Devika moved away, carrying the kit to a workstation, feeling Vishnu's gaze following her like a physical touch. She caught Pathan watching as well, his eyes narrowed with what might have been jealousy at the intimate contact he had witnessed.



For the remainder of the practical session, Devika maintained a professional demeanor, though the undercurrent of tension remained. Both Pathan and Vishnu found reasons to be near her, to ask questions that required her close attention, their bodies gravitating toward hers like planets caught in orbit.



When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the session, Devika dismissed the class with practiced composure. "Please complete your observations and submit your reports by Wednesday," she instructed, gathering her materials.



As the students filed out, Pathan and Vishnu lingered, their movements slow and reluctant, as if leaving her presence required physical effort. Devika felt their eyes on her as she organized microscope slides, their hunger palpable even from across the room.



"Good work today," she said, offering them a final smile as they reached the door. "I look forward to seeing your reports."



They nodded, mumbling acknowledgments, their eyes still fixed on her as they finally exited the laboratory. Alone at last, Devika released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The day's encounters had left her both exhilarated and unsettled—the growing boldness of her interactions with her students, the strange emptiness she felt at Ganapathi's absence.



She was playing a dangerous game, she knew—not just with her career, but with the men themselves. Pathan and Vishnu's faces had shown more than simple desire today; there had been possessiveness there, a growing obsession that might not be easily contained. Yet something in her couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, this exploration of power and desire that had begun with Ramlal and now extended to these young men, to Ganapathi, to boundaries she had never imagined crossing before.

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the apartment complex as Devika returned from the college, her mind still vibrating with the day's encounters. Her body felt electric, charged by the lingering sensation of Vishnu's hands at her waist, the heat of Pathan's gaze following her movements through the laboratory. She paused at the entrance, searching instinctively for Ramlal's familiar figure at the security desk, but the small wooden chair sat empty, his weathered cap hanging on a nail beside it.



A note scrawled in Hindi explained his absence—gone to the market for supplies, back soon. Devika felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. After the heightened tension of her interactions with Pathan and Vishnu, she had half-expected, half-hoped for Ramlal's appreciative gaze as she passed, a small affirmation of the desirability she had been cultivating all day.



She climbed the stairs to her apartment, each step echoing in the quiet stairwell. Inside, she locked the door behind her and moved immediately to the bedroom, unfastening the hooks of her navy blue blouse with practiced fingers. The formal saree and restrictive blouse that had served as professional armor all day now felt stifling, the weight of propriety too heavy for her private hours.



Devika selected a simple cotton saree in pale yellow, lightweight and casual, dbanging it loosely around her body. Beneath it, she chose a sleeveless blouse that left her arms bare, the cotton soft against her skin still warm from the day's heat. She released her hair from its tight bun, massaging her scalp where the pins had pressed too firmly. Without the jasmine flowers that had adorned it for work, her hair fell in dark waves past her shoulders, framing her face in a softer, more intimate way than her colleagues or students ever witnessed.



The television provided background noise as she moved about the apartment, preparing a cup of tea, arranging cushions on the sofa. She settled into the soft embrace of the cushions, remote in hand, flipping idly through channels without really seeing what passed before her eyes. Her mind refused to focus on the screen, drifting instead to memories of the storm-swept night, of Ganapathi's small home, of his body pressed against hers on the thin mat.



"What was I thinking?" she whispered to the empty room, her fingers unconsciously moving to her waist where the bruises had faded but the memory of his touch remained imprinted on her skin. The intimacy they had shared felt both alarming and oddly comforting in retrospect—his weathered hands on her bare stomach, his breath warm against her neck as they slept. She had allowed a sixty-year-old peon to hold her through the night, had woken dbangd across his body like a lover.



A flash of movement on the television screen caught her attention, pulling her from her reverie. The channel had changed to a romantic film, and the scene unfolding showed the hero and heroine locked in a passionate embrace. Their lips met not in the chaste, barely-touching kisses of typical Indian cinema, but in a desperate, hungry collision. The camera lingered on their mouths as they opened to each other, tongues visibly exploring, teeth gently catching on lips, saliva glistening in the dim light.



Devika's breath caught in her throat. The raw intimacy of the kiss mesmerized her—so different from anything she had experienced with Anand. Her husband's kisses had always been perfunctory, dry press of closed lips, a formality observed rather than a pleasure shared. Even when she had tried to deepen their kisses, parting her lips in invitation, he had pulled away, uncomfortable with what he deemed excessive.



"How can they kiss like that?" she murmured, leaning forward slightly as the scene continued, the couple on screen devouring each other with unrestrained passion. "They're actors, not even real lovers. Yet they seem to... enjoy it."



The realization struck her suddenly—in all her recent explorations, all the boundaries she had allowed men to cross with her body, she had never permitted a kiss. Not Ramlal when his hands had roamed her waist during their cooking lesson. Not Seenu when his fingers had traced patterns on her stomach in his office. Not Ganapathi when his mouth had pressed hot against her shoulder in the auto-rickshaw.



Her lips remained untouched, a final frontier she had unconsciously preserved, perhaps for someone younger, more handsome—for the fantasy lover she had imagined in her loneliest moments. She had thought herself saving this ultimate intimacy for Pathan or Vishnu, drawn to their youth, their vitality. But that path led to danger she couldn't risk, to complications that might destroy the careful balance she maintained between desire and propriety.



On screen, the kiss had ended, but the image remained burned in her mind. She touched her fingers to her lips, feeling their softness, imagining how it would feel to have another's mouth pressed against them, another's tongue slipping between them. The desire rose in her like a wave, unexpected in its intensity.



Her thoughts drifted to porn videos she had glimpsed online, searching for education about the physical intimacy her marriage lacked. She recalled scenes of older men kissing younger women with surprising passion, their experience compensating for what they lacked in conventional attractiveness. The memory sent a shiver through her body, a reluctant acknowledgment that age need not diminish desire or skill.



"But they all chew paan," she whispered, her mind cycling through images of Ramlal, Seenu, and Ganapathi, their teeth stained red from the habit, their breath likely flavored with the mixture of betel nut and tobacco. She imagined their lips against hers, their tongues entering her mouth, and felt a confusing mixture of revulsion and curiosity.



Her own mouth was clean, her lips soft and rosy, untainted by such habits. The thought of allowing these men access to this last pure part of herself felt like a final surrender, a crossing of a threshold from which she couldn't return. Yet the urge to experience what she had just witnessed on screen grew stronger with each passing moment.



Devika stood abruptly, pacing the small living room. She needed to make a choice, to select from her unlikely suitors the one who would introduce her to this pleasure she had denied herself. Seenu carried too much professional risk, his position as department head giving him power that could be wielded against her. Ganapathi, while unexpectedly tender, lived too far away to approach casually, and the memory of their night together still unsettled her.



Ramlal, then. The security guard whose eyes had followed her for months, whose hands had already learned the contours of her waist during their cooking lesson, whose position gave him access to her home without raising suspicions. Ramlal, who existed in a perfect middle ground—close enough to reach, distant enough to control.



"But how?" she asked herself, resuming her seat on the sofa. She couldn't simply ask him to kiss her—such directness would surrender too much power, would transform her from object of desire to desperate supplicant. She needed a pretext, a scenario that would allow the kiss to unfold as if by accident, as if neither had planned it.



Devika reached for her tea, now cold, and sipped it thoughtfully. She needed a plan, a strategy that would bring Ramlal's lips to hers while maintaining the fiction that she remained in control, that she was still the professor being admired rather than the woman actively seeking satisfaction of her desires.





# Scene 2



A memory surfaced suddenly, clear as yesterday—Ramlal standing in her kitchen, speaking of kulfi with words that dripped with suggestion. "Very creamy, very sweet," he had said, his eyes holding hers with meaning that transcended the simple dessert. "When you put in mouth, it melts slowly on tongue." And later, their conversation about mangoes, his fingers tracing the air in the shape of the fruit, describing how to suck the juice from its flesh. Devika's lips parted unconsciously at the recollection, her pulse quickening as an idea took shape.



Kulfi. The perfect pretext. She could ask Ramlal to bring her the frozen treat, invite him inside, and then... Her mind raced ahead, constructing the scenario with meticulous attention. She would need a reason why she couldn't eat it herself, why she would need him to feed her. The pieces fell into place with surprising ease, as if her subconscious had been crafting this plan all along.



"It could work," she whispered, her fingers drumming against her thigh. The request wouldn't seem strange given their previous conversations. She could guide him from feeding her kulfi to the kiss she craved, a natural progression that would feel spontaneous rather than calculated.



Before she could reconsider, Devika reached for the intercom mounted near her door. Her finger hovered over the button for a moment, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Was she really going to do this? Ask the security guard to bring her dessert as a prelude to her first real kiss in years?



She pressed the button firmly, decision made.



"Security desk," Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker, confirming he had returned to his post.



"Ramlal," she said, deliberately softening her voice, allowing a hint of intimate familiarity to color his name. "It's Professor Devika."



"Yes, madam? Is everything all right?" His concern was immediate, professional.



She twirled the end of her loose hair around one finger, though he couldn't see the girlish gesture. "Everything's fine. I was just wondering... do you remember our conversation about kulfi?"



A brief silence followed, loaded with understanding. "Yes, madam. I remember."



"I've been thinking about it all day," she continued, her voice dropping lower, the words falling like honey from her lips. "That creamy sweetness you described. I can almost taste it."



Another pause, longer this time. When Ramlal spoke again, his voice had changed, deepened slightly. "It is very delicious, madam."



"Could you bring some to my apartment?" The request hung in the air between them, its implications clear despite its innocence. "I'd be very grateful."



"Kulfi? Now?" He sounded both stunned and pleased.



"Yes, now," she confirmed, allowing a small laugh to escape. "Unless you're too busy with your duties?"



"No, no," he said quickly. "For you, I can manage. The small shop near the corner sells good kulfi. I will bring in few minutes."



"Thank you, Ramlal," she purred. "The door will be open. Just come in when you arrive."



She released the intercom button and pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. Had she really just done that? Invited the security guard to her apartment with words so laden with suggestion they barely maintained the pretense of innocence?



Devika moved quickly through the apartment, suddenly aware of how little time she had to prepare. Her plan needed one more element—a reason why she couldn't feed herself, why she would need Ramlal's hands to bring the kulfi to her lips.



In her bedroom, she rummaged through a drawer until she found a small tube of mehandi paste left over from last year's Diwali celebrations. Perfect. She squeezed a small amount onto her palm and began to apply simple designs to both hands, working swiftly. Nothing elaborate—just enough to make her claim believable.



As she worked, her heartbeat refused to slow, each pulse sending waves of anticipation and anxiety through her body. What if Ramlal misunderstood? What if he understood too well? The boundary she was preparing to cross felt more significant than those she had already traversed. Her waist, her stomach, her back—these were territories she had surrendered to various hands, yet her lips remained unclaimed, a final frontier of intimacy.



The mehandi designs took shape—simple vines and dots adorning her palms and the backs of her hands. She blew gently on the paste, encouraging it to dry, her mind racing ahead to the moment when Ramlal would stand before her, kulfi in hand, eyes questioning.



A knock at the door sent her heart leaping to her throat. "Come in," she called, her voice steadier than she felt. "The door is open."



Ramlal entered hesitantly, a small cardboard box clutched in his hands. He wore his usual khaki uniform, though he had removed his cap, his graying hair combed neatly to one side. His eyes found her immediately where she sat on the sofa, the pale yellow saree dbangd loosely around her body, her hair flowing freely down her shoulders. Something flashed in his expression—surprise at her casual appearance, perhaps, or appreciation for the softer vision she presented compared to her usual professional armor.



"Good evening, madam," he said, remaining near the door as if uncertain of his welcome despite her invitation. "I brought kulfi."



Devika smiled, gesturing toward the small coffee table before her. "Please, bring it here. What kind did you get?"



Ramlal approached, placing the box on the table with careful movements. He opened the lid to reveal not one or two kulfi, but at least eight, arranged neatly in the box.



She couldn't suppress a laugh, the tension breaking momentarily. "Ramlal! Why so many?"



A hint of embarrassment colored his weathered features, but his eyes held a hint of mischief. "I couldn't decide which flavor you might like best, madam. So I bought all the ones they had." He paused, then added with unexpected candor, "Truth is, if I had more money in my pocket, I would have bought the entire shop for you."



The simple declaration, offered without artifice, touched something in Devika. This man, this aging security guard with paan-stained teeth and calloused hands, had spent a significant portion of his day's wages to fulfill her whim.



"That's very sweet of you," she said softly.



Ramlal nodded, his moment of boldness apparently spent. He arranged the box more precisely on the table and began to step back. "Will that be all, madam? I should return to my post."



"Actually," Devika said quickly, holding up her hands to display the drying mehandi patterns, "I find myself with a small problem. I applied mehandi just before you arrived—a sudden impulse—and now I can't touch anything until it dries completely."



Ramlal's eyes moved from her hands to her face, confusion evident in his expression. "I see, madam. Would you like me to come back later, when it's dry?"



"No," she said, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. "I was hoping you might... help me. I've been thinking about that kulfi all day, and now I can't even eat it myself."



Understanding dawned slowly in his eyes, transforming confusion to disbelief. "You want me to... feed you the kulfi, madam?"



"If you don't mind," she said, her voice a deliberate blend of innocence and invitation. "I can't use my hands, you see."



Ramlal stood frozen, his gaze moving between her hennaed hands and her face, as if searching for confirmation that he hadn't misunderstood. "You want me to feed you?" he repeated.



"Yes," she confirmed, meeting his eyes directly. "Unless that would make you uncomfortable?"



He swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "No, madam. Not uncomfortable. Just..." He trailed off, apparently unable to articulate the tumult of emotions her request had triggered.



"I've never had kulfi before," Devika added, the lie falling easily from her lips. "You'll need to guide me. Show me how to eat it properly."



Something shifted in Ramlal's expression—surprise giving way to something darker, more focused. He understood now, or thought he did, the nature of the game they were playing. "Yes, madam," he said, his voice rougher than before. "I can teach you how to enjoy kulfi properly."





# Scene 3



Ramlal's fingers trembled slightly as he selected a kulfi from the box, the malai flavor with its pale, creamy surface. He peeled back the wrapper with deliberate slowness, aware of Devika watching his every movement from the sofa, her hennaed hands resting uselessly in her lap. The frozen treat emerged, cylindrical and pristine, catching the soft lamplight as he held it before her. Their eyes met over this innocent confection that had somehow transformed into something else entirely—a prop in a performance neither had planned yet both now eagerly anticipated.



He moved closer, standing before her, the kulfi held cautiously to avoid drips as it began to soften in the warm evening air. Devika looked up at him, her neck arched slightly, her lips parted in expectation. The position created an unmistakable tableau—the standing man, the seated woman, the offering extended between them.



"How should I begin?" she asked, her voice deliberately innocent despite the charged atmosphere. "I've never done this before."



Ramlal's throat worked as he swallowed, gathering his courage. "First, madam, you must lick the tip," he instructed, his voice rougher than usual. "Just taste it, feel its coolness on your tongue."



He lowered the kulfi to her face, holding it just inches from her lips. Devika leaned forward slightly, her eyes locked with his, and extended her tongue in a delicate point. The pink flesh made contact with the creamy surface, leaving a small indentation. She drew her tongue back into her mouth, savoring the sweetness.



"Mmm," she hummed, the sound vibrating in her throat. "It is delicious. Very smooth."



"Yes," Ramlal agreed, his gaze fixed on her mouth. "Now lick more, madam. Make it wet all around the tip."



Devika complied, her tongue emerging again to trace slow circles around the top of the kulfi. She kept her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving his face as she followed his instructions with an eagerness that belied her claimed inexperience. Her tongue flattened against the cold surface, dragging upward, leaving a glistening trail across the creamy dessert.



"Like this?" she asked between licks, her voice honeyed with feigned naivety.



"Yes, just like that," Ramlal affirmed, his breathing becoming more audible in the quiet apartment. "Now, madam, take the tip between your lips. Gently suck it, feel it melting in your mouth."



Devika parted her lips, allowing the kulfi to slip between them. She closed her mouth around the top inch, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she created the suction he had requested. The cold sweetness spread across her tongue, pooling at the back of her throat. She released the kulfi with a soft pop, her lips now glistening with moisture.



"It's so cold," she murmured, "but I like it. I'm enjoying this... lesson."



The kulfi had begun to melt in earnest now, a thin rivulet of cream escaping down the side. Before it could reach Ramlal's fingers, it changed course, tracking down the opposite side and falling in a single drop onto Devika's chin.



"Oh," she gasped, unable to wipe it away with her hennaed hands.



Ramlal's eyes darkened at the sight of the white droplet against her golden skin. "Don't move, madam," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll take care of it."



She expected him to offer a napkin. Instead, his thumb rose to her chin, gently wiping away the drop of melted kulfi. The contact was brief but electric, his weathered skin rough against the softness of her face. He withdrew his hand quickly, as if surprised by his own boldness.



"It's melting fast," he observed, his eyes now fixed on the kulfi rather than her face. "You need to eat more quickly. Take it deeper into your mouth and suck harder."



Devika's heart fluttered at his increasingly explicit instructions, the thinly veiled double meaning of his words sending heat blooming across her skin. She leaned forward again, this time opening her mouth wider, allowing the kulfi to slide deeper inside.



"Yes," Ramlal encouraged, his voice tight with restraint. "Now, madam, keep your tongue busy while sucking. Move it around the kulfi, feel its shape."



She followed his direction, her tongue circling the cold cylinder, exploring its contours as she maintained the suction of her lips. The melting kulfi flooded her mouth with sweetness, threatening to overflow. She swallowed quickly, the movement of her throat visible to Ramlal's watching eyes.



Something changed in his demeanor—a threshold crossed from hesitant participant to active guide. He began to move the kulfi, sliding it deeper into her mouth, then withdrawing it to the edge of her lips before pushing forward again. The rhythmic motion left no doubt about what it mimicked, what act they were simulaing without acknowledging.



"Keep sucking, madam," he instructed, his breathing now uneven. "Make sure to keep your tongue busy."



His free hand moved to cup the back of her head, steadying her as he continued the gentle in-and-out motion of the kulfi. His fingers threaded into her loose hair, the contact surprisingly intimate, more so even than the suggestive feeding. Devika's eyes fluttered closed, allowing herself to be guided by his hand, accepting the kulfi as it moved between her lips.



"Ah," Ramlal groaned, the sound escaping him unbidden. "You like my kulfi, madam? It tastes good?"



Devika answered with a muffled sound of agreement, unable to speak with her mouth full. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with naked desire, all pretense of professional deference abandoned in this private moment. He was breathing through his mouth now, his lips parted, mirroring hers in unconscious sympathy.



The kulfi had diminished significantly, melting and consumed until only a small portion remained. Ramlal pushed it fully into her mouth one final time, his fingers brushing against her lips as he released it.



"Finish it," he whispered hoarsely. "Take all of it."



Devika closed her lips, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked the remaining kulfi into a liquid state, swallowing the final mouthful with deliberate slowness. When she opened her mouth again, it was empty, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of sweetness from the corner of her lips.



"It's gone," she said, her voice husky. "All of it."



Ramlal stood motionless before her, the empty stick still clutched in his fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The air between them seemed to vibrate with unspoken desires, with boundaries pushed to their limits but not yet breached.



"Was that your first time eating kulfi, madam?" he asked finally, his attempt at returning to their pretense undermined by the roughness of his voice.



"Yes," she replied, maintaining the fiction. "My very first time. But I find I'm still hungry." She glanced meaningfully at the box on the table. "Perhaps another? I'd like to practice more... technique."



Ramlal's eyes darkened further at her words. He dropped the empty stick onto the table and reached for another kulfi with newfound confidence. As he unwrapped it, Devika watched his hands—the same hands that had measured her waist, that had lingered at the small of her back when guiding her through the apartment complex, that now prepared to feed her in this most intimate way.



"This one is kesar pista," he said, revealing the pale yellow-green surface of the saffron-pistachio kulfi. "Different flavor, but same approach." He paused, then added with unexpected boldness, "Unless you want to try something new?"



The question hung between them, loaded with possibility. Devika's gaze moved from the kulfi to Ramlal's face, to his lips stained slightly red from years of paan-chewing. The final barrier she had been contemplating all evening stood before her, waiting to be crossed.



"Let's start with what we know," she said softly, her eyes holding his as she leaned forward once more. "Then perhaps... we can explore new techniques."



Ramlal nodded, understanding the promise in her words. He brought the fresh kulfi to her waiting lips, his hand steadier now, his movements more assured. The heat between them continued to build as the second round began, each knowing that the innocent dessert was merely a prelude to the true hunger neither had yet dared to name.

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



Ramlal selected another kulfi from the box, this one pale green with flecks of pistachio visible beneath its creamy surface. His fingers moved with greater confidence now, the initial tremor replaced by a deliberate slowness that matched the thickening atmosphere between them. The first kulfi had dissolved beyond recognition—partly melted, partly consumed by Devika's lips that now glistened with its sweetness. She watched him unwrap the second treat, her hennaed hands still resting uselessly in her lap, the intricate patterns beginning to darken against her skin.



"Wait," she said, her voice soft yet commanding. "I don't want you standing over me like a servant."



Ramlal paused, the newly unwrapped kulfi suspended between them. "Madam?"



"Sit beside me," Devika instructed, shifting slightly on the sofa to create space. "I don't want to crane my neck looking up at you. And I don't like eating alone while someone watches."



Hesitation flashed across his weathered face, decades of knowing his place warring with the unprecedented invitation. "Sit? Next to you, madam?"



"Yes," she confirmed, patting the cushion beside her with her elbow, careful to keep her hennaed palms exposed to the air. "Here."



Ramlal glanced toward the door as if expecting someone to burst in and catch him in this forbidden intimacy. Finding it still closed, he lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of the sofa, his body angled toward hers, the kulfi clutched like a talisman in his hand.



"Relax," Devika murmured, noting the rigid set of his shoulders. "No one will know you're here."



The reassurance seemed to release something in him. He settled more fully onto the cushion, though still maintaining a careful distance between their bodies. The pale yellow of Devika's casual saree dbangd loosely across her form, revealing glimpses of skin at her waist, at her shoulders, teasing possibilities that the formal navy blue of her work attire had concealed.



"Now," she said, turning to face him more directly, "shall we continue our lesson?"



Ramlal nodded, raising the kulfi once more toward her mouth. But Devika shook her head slightly, stopping him with the subtle movement.



"I was thinking," she began, her gaze dropping to the kulfi then returning to his eyes with deliberate intent, "perhaps we could share this one."



"Share?" The word emerged strangled from his throat.



"Yes," she confirmed, her voice dipping lower, infused with suggestion. "Why should I enjoy all the sweetness alone? You should taste it too."



His eyes widened, darting between her face and the kulfi in his hand as if unable to process her meaning. "You want me to... eat this same kulfi, madam?"



"Why not?" She tilted her head, loose hair cascading over one shoulder. "We're both adults. There's nothing wrong with sharing a dessert."



The implication hung between them—that they would share not just the kulfi but the intimacy it represented, the exchange of something more personal than mere food. Ramlal swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly beneath his weathered skin.



"You go first," Devika directed, her eyes fixed on his face. "I want to watch you taste it."



As he hesitantly raised the kulfi toward his own mouth, Devika shifted closer, eliminating the careful space he had maintained between them. Their thighs now pressed together, the thin cotton of his uniform trousers offering little barrier to the warmth of her body through the single layer of her saree.



"Wait," she commanded just as the kulfi reached his lips. "Not like that."



His hand froze, the pale green treat hovering before his mouth. Confusion clouded his eyes, uncertainty replacing the tentative confidence he had begun to develop.



"First," Devika instructed, her voice barely above a whisper, "I want you to lick it. The same way I did. Show me how it's done properly."



Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a flicker of disbelief that she—this educated, beautiful professor—would ask this of him, would want to watch his tongue against the kulfi she would later consume. The realization sent heat spreading through his body, visible in the flush that crept up his neck.



Ramlal extended his tongue, pressing it flat against the side of the kulfi. His eyes remained locked with hers as he dragged his tongue upward, leaving a glistening trail across the cold surface.



"Very good," Devika murmured, her breathing slightly quicker now. "Again. Make it wet."



He complied, his tongue moving more confidently now, circling the kulfi, dampening its surface with each pass. When he finally drew back, the tip of his tongue retreating behind his lips, the kulfi gleamed with moisture in the soft lamp light.



"Now," Devika said, her voice husky, "my turn."



She leaned forward, parting her lips to receive the treat. But rather than offering her a fresh section, Ramlal guided the same spot he had just licked to her mouth. The deliberate choice—his silent acknowledgment of what they were truly sharing—sent a tremor through Devika's body.



Her lips closed around the kulfi, her eyes holding his over the frozen confection. The knowledge that her mouth pressed against the very place his tongue had moistened moments before filled her with a forbidden thrill. She was tasting him, indirectly but undeniably, his saliva mingling with the sweetness of pistachio and cream on her tongue.



When she withdrew, a small sound escaped her throat—not quite a moan, but something adjacent to pleasure.



"How does it taste?" Ramlal asked, his voice rougher than before.



"Different," she replied truthfully. "Sweeter, somehow. With something... extra." She leaned closer, her mouth inches from his ear. "Do you realize what just happened, Ramlal? A Kerala woman just tasted the saliva of a Pune security guard. And she liked it."



He shuddered visibly at her words, his free hand clenching into a fist against his thigh. "Madam," he breathed, the single word conveying volumes of disbelief and desire.



"Come closer," she instructed, using her elbows to gesture him nearer. "And give me your hand."



Ramlal complied, shifting toward her until their shoulders touched, extending his free hand palm-up between them. Despite the mehandi decorating her skin, Devika captured his wrist with her fingertips, careful to keep her palms elevated. She guided his hand to her waist, to the exposed strip of skin where her loose saree had pulled away from the petticoat beneath.



"Feel the heat," she whispered, positioning his weathered palm against her bare midriff. "From the kulfi. From me."



His fingers spread instinctively against her skin, trembling slightly as they encountered the softness of her waist. The contrast was stark—his hand dark and calloused against her golden flesh, a juxtaposition of worlds that should never have met yet now connected in this most intimate way.



They continued their exchange, passing the kulfi between them—he would taste, then she would taste the same spot, their indirect kiss growing bolder with each transfer. The frozen treat melted faster now, droplets escaping to trail down their fingers, to fall occasionally onto Devika's saree, leaving pale green stains against the yellow fabric.



"I have an idea," Devika said suddenly, her eyes alight with mischief. "Hold the kulfi out, between us."



Ramlal extended his arm, positioning the half-melted treat in the space between their faces.



"Now," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "lick one end while I lick the other."



His eyes widened, comprehension immediate. "Madam, I don't think—"



"Don't think," she interrupted gently. "Just do it. You won't get another chance to share this with a Kerala woman."



The appeal to his pride, to the uniqueness of the moment, dissolved his resistance. He leaned forward, his tongue extending toward the bottom of the kulfi as Devika approached from the opposite side. Their faces drew nearer, the kulfi between them shrinking in significance as the true object of their approach became apparent.



Their tongues made contact with the kulfi simultaneously—hers on the top, his on the bottom, separated by mere centimeters of rapidly melting cream. Devika's eyes remained open, watching as Ramlal's closed in concentration. She flattened her tongue against the cold surface, sliding it upward, as he moved his tongue upward from below.



The inevitable happened with deliberate slowness—their tongues met in the middle, slipping past the dissolving kulfi to touch directly. The contact was electric, the wet heat of their tongues connecting in a kiss that bypassed their lips entirely. Devika felt Ramlal jerk slightly at the contact, his hand at her waist tightening reflexively, fingers digging into the soft flesh.



The slippery slide of tongue against tongue, made more so by the melting kulfi, sent a wave of heat through Devika's body that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. She tasted pistachio and cream, yes, but beneath it the unmistakable flavor of paan, the slight bitterness that should have repulsed her but instead added a forbidden dimension to their encounter.



Ramlal's arousal was evident in the sudden rigidity of his posture, in the pressure of his fingers against her waist, in the slight groan that escaped his throat as their tongues continued their dance around the rapidly disappearing kulfi. The frozen treat had become nothing more than a pretext, a melting prop in the performance they had both committed to with increasing abandon.



As the last of the kulfi dissolved between them, their tongues remained connected for a heartbeat longer than necessary, neither willing to be the first to withdraw from this unprecedented intimacy. When they finally separated, a thin strand of saliva and melted cream briefly connected them before breaking, a visual echo of the boundary they had just irrevocably crossed.





# Scene 2



The remains of the second kulfi dripped from Ramlal's fingers, a sticky testament to their shared indulgence. Devika leaned back slightly, her breathing uneven, the taste of pistachio and paan lingering on her tongue. The barrier had been breached—their tongues had touched, had slid against each other in a dance more intimate than any conversation they had shared. But it wasn't enough. The brief contact had merely awakened a hunger that the kulfi could no longer satisfy, a craving for something that had nothing to do with sweetness and everything to do with the man whose calloused hand still pressed against her waist.



"Take another," she said, her eyes falling to the box on the coffee table. "A different flavor this time."



Ramlal nodded, reaching for a kulfi wrapped in silver foil. His movements were mechanical, distracted, his mind clearly still processing the intimacy of their shared moment. He peeled back the wrapper to reveal a deep orange treat, its surface smooth and inviting.



"Mango," he identified, his voice hoarse. "Very sweet. Summer flavor."



"Take a bite," Devika instructed, watching his face intently. "I want to see you enjoy it."



Confusion flickered across his features. "A bite? Not licking?"



"Yes," she confirmed. "A proper bite. I want to watch you."



Ramlal hesitated only briefly before bringing the kulfi to his mouth. He closed his lips around the top portion and bit down, severing a small chunk that he held between his teeth, visible for a moment before he closed his mouth fully. He chewed slowly, the cold clearly uncomfortable against his teeth, his expression a mixture of pleasure and bewilderment at her continued interest in watching him eat.



Devika leaned forward suddenly, her eyes locked on his mouth. "You took too much," she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Without sharing. I need it back."



Before Ramlal could respond, she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips firmly against his. The shock froze him completely—his body rigid, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief. Devika's mouth moved against his, soft and insistent, seeking entry. After a moment's resistance born of pure astonishment, his lips parted slightly, and she slipped her tongue between them, ostensibly searching for the kulfi he had consumed.



The pretense dissolved instantly. This was no longer about the dessert—if it ever truly had been. This was Devika's first real kiss in years, her first exploration of another's mouth with genuine desire rather than obligatory affection. She remembered the pornographic scene she had watched earlier, the actors' passionate exchange, and mimicked their movements—lips parting wide, tongue pushing deeper, head angling to achieve maximum contact.



"Mmm," she moaned against his mouth, the sound vibrating between them. "Ramlal, I need that kulfi from your mouth."



Her words seemed to break through his shock. His free hand rose to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her loose hair, holding her against him as he began to respond to the kiss. His lips, initially slack with surprise, now pressed back against hers with growing hunger. The taste of him was complex—mango kulfi layered over the earthier flavor of paan, the slight bitterness she had tasted on his tongue now infusing their kiss completely.



Devika sucked at his bottom lip, drawing it between her own, feeling its fullness, its unexpected softness contrasting with the roughness of his beard. She released it with a wet sound that sent shivers through her body, then immediately recaptured his mouth in a deeper kiss.



"I never thought," Ramlal gasped when they briefly separated for air, "never imagined a woman like you would—"



"Shh," she silenced him, reclaiming his mouth, unwilling to break the spell with words that might remind them of who they were, of the boundaries they were obliterating. Her first kiss would be long and thorough, unmarred by reality's intrusions.



The partially eaten kulfi was melting rapidly in Ramlal's hand, forgotten as their mouths explored each other with increasing boldness. When they parted again, Devika's gaze fell to the orange treat, an idea forming in her mind.



"My turn now," she said, gesturing with her chin toward the kulfi. "I'll take a bite, and then I'll feed you."



Ramlal nodded, his eyes dazed, his lips slightly swollen from the force of their kisses. He raised the kulfi to her mouth, and she bit into it, holding the cold sweetness on her tongue. Then she smiled, a decision visibly forming behind her eyes.



"This Kerala woman is going to sit on your lap," she announced, her voice thick with the melting kulfi and her own desire. "To feed you properly."



Without waiting for his response, Devika rose from the sofa in a fluid motion, careful to keep her hennaed hands elevated. She turned and lowered herself onto Ramlal's lap, sitting sideways across his thighs, her legs extended along the length of the sofa. The position was intimate beyond anything they had shared thus far—her buttocks pressing directly against his thighs, the weight of her body settling fully against him.



Ramlal's breath escaped in a shuddering gasp as he felt her warmth through the thin cotton of her saree, the soft curves of her bottom nestling against him. His free hand instinctively moved to her waist, steadying her, fingers pressing into the exposed skin where her blouse ended and her saree began.



"Can you feel that?" Devika whispered, shifting slightly, deliberately pressing down against the hardness she felt beneath her. "Can you feel what you do to me? What I do to you?"



"Yes," he managed, the word strained. "Madam, I—"



"No 'madam' now," she interrupted. "Just Devika. Say it."



"Devika," he repeated, the name foreign on his tongue, intimate in a way that transcended their physical connection. "Devika."



She smiled, pleased by his compliance, by the reverence with which he spoke her name. Then she leaned forward, the kulfi still held in her mouth, and pressed her lips to his. This time, instead of taking, she gave—pushing the partially melted mango kulfi from her mouth to his with her tongue, sharing the sweetness in the most intimate way possible.



Ramlal accepted her offering with a moan, his mouth opening wider to receive both the kulfi and her probing tongue. They kissed deeply, the melting dessert creating a slick, sweet medium for their tongues to slide against each other. When they finally separated, orange droplets clung to their lips, trails of the shared treat marking their connection.



"Again," Devika commanded, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears. She reached for the kulfi Ramlal still held, careful to use only her fingertips where the mehandi was lightest. She took another bite, but this time, instead of immediately sharing it, she used her tongue to smear the melting treat across her own lips, coating them in sticky sweetness.



"Feel the Kerala woman's taste," she murmured, leaning forward again, pressing her kulfi-coated lips firmly against his. She moved her mouth from side to side, rubbing her lips against his in circular motions, spreading the sweetness between them. The friction of mouth against mouth, slick with kulfi and their own saliva, sent waves of pleasure through her body that pooled low in her belly, a liquid heat that made her press more firmly against his lap.



Ramlal groaned, his hand at her waist tightening reflexively. He kissed her back with increasing urgency, his tongue darting out to lick the kulfi from her lips, from the corners of her mouth, from her chin where droplets had escaped. His other hand, still holding what remained of the kulfi, trembled visibly, his focus entirely consumed by the woman writhing on his lap.



Devika took one final bite of the kulfi, holding it in her mouth until it began to melt. "Open," she commanded, her voice thick with the dissolving treat. When Ramlal's lips parted in obedience, she leaned forward, extending her tongue toward his waiting mouth. "Take my Kerala hot tongue," she whispered, the words sending visible shivers through his body.



She pushed her tongue between his lips, carrying the melting kulfi deep into his mouth. Instead of withdrawing, she kept it there, exploring the unfamiliar territory with bold strokes, tangling with his tongue in a slippery battle that had no victor, only shared pleasure. The taste of paan was stronger now, the kulfi's sweetness receding as their natural flavors dominated.



As they kissed, Devika began to move subtly on his lap, a slight rocking motion that pressed her buttocks more firmly against the hardness straining beneath Ramlal's uniform trousers. She felt him jerk beneath her, his body stiffening, his grip on her waist becoming almost painful in its intensity.



"Hnnn," he grunted against her mouth, the sound primal and unrestrained. His hips bucked upward involuntarily, pressing against her with desperate force. His entire body shuddered, tension building and then suddenly releasing in waves that Devika felt through the thin fabric separating them.



She continued kissing him through his climax, swallowing his groans, feeling a surge of feminine power at having brought him to this point without even touching him intimately. She had made him lose control completely, had reduced this man to his most basic response, with nothing more than her weight on his lap and her mouth against his.



When the shudders finally subsided, Ramlal broke the kiss, dropping his head against the back of the sofa, his chest heaving with rapid breaths. Embarrassment colored his features as awareness returned to his eyes, the realization of what had just happened making him unable to meet her gaze.



Devika felt no such shame. Instead, pride bloomed in her chest—pride that she, a woman whose husband had found her so unremarkable that he had sought satisfaction elsewhere, could inspire such uncontrollable passion in a man. That she could make him climax without even trying, simply by being desirable, by allowing him to taste what had been denied for so long.



"Did you just...?" she asked softly, already knowing the answer, wanting only to hear him acknowledge what her power had done to him.



Ramlal nodded, his eyes still averted. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's been so long, and you're so... I couldn't..."



"Don't apologize," Devika said, shifting slightly on his lap, feeling the dampness beneath her. "I'm flattered. That I could make you feel that way without even touching you."



He finally met her eyes, disbelief mingling with the lingering pleasure in his gaze. "How could I not? You're the most beautiful woman who has ever—" He stopped, words failing him.



Devika smiled, a secret curve of lips still sticky with kulfi and kisses. She had given her first real kiss to this aging security guard with paan-stained teeth, and far from regretting it, she found herself wanting more.





# Scene 3





The sticky remnants of mango kulfi clung to their lips, sweet evidence of boundaries dissolved. Devika remained perched on Ramlal's lap, watching as his breathing gradually steadied, as awareness returned to his eyes. The dampness beneath her—his release, triggered by nothing more than her weight and her kisses—should have disgusted her. Instead, she felt a surge of feminine power, of satisfaction in knowing she had unmade him so completely. And yet, despite what had just transpired between them, she found herself strangely unsated, wanting something more, something she couldn't quite name but could almost taste at the edges of her consciousness.



"There's still more kulfi," she observed, her eyes drifting to the box on the coffee table. A few untouched treats remained nestled in their foil wrappers, promises of continued exploration.



Ramlal followed her gaze, then looked back at her face with a mixture of exhaustion and lingering disbelief. "You want more?" he asked, his voice rough from their kisses, from the groans she had drawn from his throat.



"Not to eat," Devika clarified, shifting slightly on his lap. "For... other purposes."



Something in her tone made his breath catch. Despite what had just happened, despite his age and the natural recovery time his body should have required, she felt a stirring beneath her, evidence that her words alone could reawaken his desire.



"Reach for one," she instructed, nodding toward the box. "The chocolate one."



Ramlal obeyed, stretching to retrieve the dark brown kulfi while keeping his other arm firmly around her waist, unwilling to release her even for a moment. His fingers fumbled with the wrapper, clumsy with anticipation.



"Now," Devika said once the chocolate kulfi was revealed, "I want to try something." She leaned forward, opening her mouth to take the end of the kulfi between her lips. Rather than biting or sucking, she simply held it there, allowing the treat to begin melting against the heat of her tongue. When she pulled back, her tongue emerged coated in a layer of chocolate, glistening in the soft lamplight.



"Lick it," she commanded, extending her tongue toward Ramlal's face. "Lick my tongue clean."



Ramlal stared at the offered appendage, momentarily stunned by her boldness. This was beyond anything he had experienced—this educated, beautiful woman, presenting her chocolate-covered tongue for his pleasure, inviting an intimacy so raw it transcended the merely sexual.



"I..." he hesitated, something like nervousness crossing his weathered features. "Madam—Devika—my mouth is not clean. The paan..."



"I know what your mouth tastes like," she interrupted, her tongue still extended, chocolate beginning to drip from its tip. "I want it. Lick me, Ramlal."



The use of his name, spoken in that commanding tone, broke through his resistance. He leaned forward, his own tongue emerging to meet hers in the space between their faces. The first contact was tentative—just the tip of his tongue touching hers, sampling the chocolate with delicate precision. But when Devika moaned softly, encouragingly, his restraint dissolved.



His tongue flattened against hers, licking broad strokes across its surface, gathering the melting chocolate with growing confidence. The sensation was electric—more intimate somehow than their previous kisses, this contact of tongue against tongue without the surrounding press of lips. Devika held perfectly still, allowing him to taste her, to clean her with thorough attention that soon transcended the pretext of the chocolate.



"Now suck it," she whispered when the chocolate was gone, her tongue still extended, glistening with his saliva rather than kulfi. "Take my tongue into your mouth."



Ramlal groaned at her words, his hands tightening at her waist. He opened his mouth wider, capturing her extended tongue between his lips, drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth. He sucked gently at first, then with increasing pressure, pulling her deeper, his teeth grazing the sensitive surface with just enough pressure to send shivers racing down her spine.



Devika moaned, the sound vibrating through their connected mouths. Her body arched involuntarily, pressing her chest forward as pleasure radiated from the sensitive organ he was devouring. He sucked harder, his mouth creating a vacuum around her tongue, the sensation almost painful in its intensity yet undeniably arousing.



When he finally released her, they were both breathing heavily, their faces flushed with renewed desire. Devika's tongue felt slightly swollen, sensitized from his attention, yet she immediately wanted more.



"Your turn," she said, gesturing toward the kulfi still in his hand. "Make your tongue wet with it. I want to taste you properly."



Ramlal's eyes darkened at her words. He raised the kulfi to his own mouth, mimicking what she had done, allowing the chocolate to coat his tongue before extending it toward her. The sight was obscene in its rawness—this elderly man offering his tongue to her, stained with paan and kulfi, glistening with saliva in the low light of her apartment.



She should have been repulsed. Instead, she found herself leaning forward eagerly, her mouth opening to receive him. She captured his tongue between her lips, drawing it into her mouth with a hunger that surprised even herself. The taste was complex—chocolate sweetness layered over the earthier flavor of paan, the combination strange yet oddly compelling. She sucked hard, feeling him tremble beneath her, hearing the muffled groan that escaped his throat as she drew him deeper.



His tongue was rougher than hers, the surface slightly textured against the roof of her mouth as she explored it with her own. She sucked rhythmically, mimicking more intimate acts, feeling his body respond beneath her. The dampness from his earlier release was forgotten as new hardness pressed against her, evidence that age was no match for desire when properly stoked.



Ramlal's hands, which had remained respectfully at her waist throughout their exchange, now grew bolder. As she continued to suck his tongue, his palms began to slide upward along her sides, thumbs tracing the underswell of her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse. The touch was tentative at first, a question rather than a demand, but grew more confident when she didn't immediately object.



Devika felt his intentions—the destination of those wandering hands—and made a swift decision. She had allowed much tonight, had crossed boundaries she had never imagined breaching, but some limits remained. This exploration had been about her mouth, about tastes and tongues and kisses. She wasn't ready to surrender more intimate territories.



She released his tongue, simultaneously capturing his wrists with her fingertips, careful to keep her hennaed palms from making contact. "No," she said simply, firmly, moving his hands back to her waist. "Not those."



Disappointment flashed across his face, but he didn't argue, didn't push. His hands returned to her waist, his thumbs resuming their gentle caress of exposed skin without venturing higher. There was acceptance in his touch—gratitude for what she had given rather than resentment for what she withheld.



Devika smiled, pleased by his respect for her boundaries. She rewarded him by resuming their kiss, her lips pressing against his, her tongue slipping back into his mouth. As they kissed, their hands found each other, fingers intertwining in an unexpectedly tender gesture. Palm to palm, fingers laced together, they created a connection that felt almost more intimate than the wet heat of their joined mouths.



When they parted for breath, Devika's mind circled back to a thought that had been forming since their first taste of shared kulfi—a desire to experience something even more forbidden, more primal.



"Ramlal," she said softly, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, "I want something from you."



"Anything," he replied immediately, his eyes dark with continued desire despite the release he had already experienced.



"I want your saliva," she stated, the words hanging between them in their raw simplicity. "Mixed with kulfi. In my mouth."



Ramlal drew back slightly, confusion evident in his expression. "My... saliva? You want me to...?"



"Yes," she confirmed, maintaining eye contact, refusing to show embarrassment at her request. "I want to taste you directly. Not just from kissing, but..." She hesitated, then finished her thought. "I want you to spit in my mouth."



His face registered shock, followed by concern. "But madam—Devika—I chew paan. My mouth is not clean for such a thing. You are an educated woman, from Kerala. I am just—"



"That's exactly why I want it," she interrupted, her voice low and intense. "Because you're not like me. Because it's forbidden. Because I never thought I would want such a thing, yet here I am, asking for it."



Something shifted in his eyes—understanding, perhaps, of the deeper hunger that drove her request. Not just physical desire, but a need to transgress, to shatter the boundaries that had confined her for so long.



"If you're sure," he said finally, reaching for the kulfi again.



He took a small bite, holding the cold sweetness in his mouth, allowing it to melt against his tongue. Then he looked at Devika questioningly, waiting for her final confirmation. She responded by sliding from his lap, kneeling on the floor between his legs, her head tilted back, her lips parted in expectation. The position should have made her feel degraded, submissive, yet instead she felt powerful—this was her choice, her desire, her command that he was following.



Ramlal leaned forward, gathering the mixture of kulfi and saliva in his mouth. He hesitated one final moment, then parted his lips, allowing a thin stream to fall directly into Devika's waiting mouth. The liquid landed on her tongue, cool and sweet from the kulfi, yet unmistakably his—intimate fluid that society dictated should never be shared.



She closed her mouth, swallowing deliberately, maintaining eye contact as she accepted this most personal offering. A shudder passed through her body—not disgust, but a dark pleasure in having crossed yet another boundary, in having tasted something so forbidden.



"Again," she requested, her voice husky. "Without the kulfi this time. Just you."



This time, Ramlal didn't hesitate. He gathered saliva in his mouth, leaned forward, and released it into hers in a more substantial stream. The taste was stronger now without the kulfi to mask it—paan and tobacco and the essence of him, undiluted and unmistakable. Devika swallowed it with the same deliberate motion, feeling a transgressive thrill course through her veins.



"Now," she said, rising from her kneeling position, resuming her seat on his lap, "it's your turn. You said you wanted to taste Kerala flavor."



She gathered saliva in her own mouth, clean and sweet compared to his, and bent toward him. He tilted his head back, lips parting eagerly to receive her offering. She let it fall in a thin stream, watching as his throat worked to swallow, as his eyes closed in apparent reverence at this most intimate exchange.



"Very tasty," he murmured when he had swallowed completely. "Sweeter than kulfi."



They continued this exchange twice more, this sharing of their most personal fluids, before Devika's sense of propriety finally reasserted itself. She had ventured further tonight than she had ever imagined possible, had tasted and been tasted in ways that defied conventional boundaries. Yet she knew this interlude must end, must remain contained within the walls of her apartment, separate from the reality that waited outside.



She leaned forward one final time, pressing her lips against his in a kiss that felt almost chaste compared to what had preceded it. "Love you," she whispered against his mouth, the words surprising her as they emerged. "Love you and thank you for the kiss."



Then she rose from his lap, adjusting her saree with the tips of her fingers, careful of the mehandi that had now dried completely, leaving dark patterns against her skin.



"We're done for now," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You should go before someone comes looking for you."



Ramlal nodded, understanding the dismissal, accepting the necessary return to their separate worlds. He stood, adjusting his uniform trousers, attempting to conceal the evidence of their encounter. His expression was dazed but contented, like a man who had briefly glimpsed paradise and now found himself returned to earth, changed but grateful.



"Thank you," he said simply, moving toward the door. "For everything."



Devika smiled, a private curve of lips still swollen from their kisses. "Good night, Ramlal."



As the door closed behind him, she touched her fingers to her lips, feeling the ghost of his mouth against hers, the lingering taste of him on her tongue. She had crossed boundaries tonight that she had never imagined breaching, had discovered desires she hadn't known existed within her. And rather than shame, she felt only a strange peace, a sense of having reclaimed something vital that had long been denied.

[Sage_69]

Devika wants meat flavoured kulfi.

[tamannanav]

holy fuck bro
u r damn genius too erotic
dont make devika a slut , let her make everyone slave to her
wonder who will get to suck her boobs first

[prady12191]

[exbiixossip2]

very hot and sexy...

nextupdatebro..

[Emulove]

Man you are amazing... Wish to have update soon...

[Deeraaan]

Very good, but it's a story about a golden hearted women who serves peoples of lower strata, don't make her like a whore.