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

[Thilka]

Eagerly waiting for next update

[richierich4u]

This is next level too awesome

[exbiixossip2]

next update bro...

very hot and sex seduce update with hot pics

[Emulove]

Bro plz update regularly... This story is gem

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



The door clicked shut behind Ramlal, and Devika stood motionless in the center of her living room, the taste of him still lingering on her tongue. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, swollen and sticky with the remnants of kulfi and something more intimate—the mingled saliva they had exchanged with such deliberate transgression. The evidence of their encounter lay scattered across the coffee table: the box of half-melted kulfi, wrappers peeled back like shed skins, small puddles of sweetness congealing on the polished wood. Her hennaed hands bore witness too, the intricate patterns now fully dried, darkened to mahogany against her golden skin—hands that had guided his to her waist but had otherwise remained decorative, uninvolved in the pleasures her mouth had sought and found.



Devika moved toward the bathroom on unsteady legs, her reflection catching her by surprise as she flipped on the harsh fluorescent light. The woman who stared back at her seemed both familiar and foreign—her hair disheveled from Ramlal's fingers, her lips reddened and slightly puffy, a smear of chocolate kulfi at the corner of her mouth and another along her chin. But it was her eyes that startled her most—bright with a feverish light she had never seen there before, pupils still dilated with desire that hadn't fully ebbed.



"What have I become?" she whispered to her reflection, the words forming in the same mouth that had eagerly received Ramlal's spit, had swallowed it with deliberate pleasure.



She wet a washcloth and began to clean her face, wiping away the sticky evidence of kulfi and kisses. The cloth came away stained with chocolate and the faint reddish tint she recognized as paan residue—Ramlal's mark upon her skin. She scrubbed harder, watching as the visible traces disappeared, though the memory of his taste remained imprinted on her tongue, impossible to erase.



Her saree was spotted with drops of kulfi—pale green and orange and brown against the yellow cotton. She would need to soak it, to wash away these stains before they set permanently. Like her body, her clothing bore witness to what had transpired, carried the evidence of pleasure sought and found in unlikely places.



Devika slipped out of the stained saree and blouse, standing naked before the mirror, examining herself with new eyes. Her body looked unchanged—the same curves, the same golden skin, the same small imperfections she had always carried. Yet inside, something fundamental had shifted, boundaries crumbling like sandcastles against an incoming tide.



"I let an old man spit in my mouth," she said aloud, testing how the words felt on her tongue. "I drank his saliva. I asked for it."



The enormity of it struck her suddenly—not just the act itself, but what it represented. This was not the woman she had been in Kerala, the dutiful wife, the respected daughter-in-law, the proper professor who maintained careful distance from those beneath her station. That woman would have recoiled at the mere thought of such an exchange, would have found it repulsive beyond imagining.



"Paan-stained teeth," she murmured, remembering how she had once grimaced at the habit, had silently judged those who indulged in it. Now she had deliberately sought that taste, had found unexpected pleasure in its forbidden bitterness.



She showered, water sluicing over her body, washing away the physical traces of the evening while leaving the memories intact. As she dressed for bed, slipping a cotton nightgown over her head, her mind continued to circle around the transformation taking place within her. From Ramlal to Seenu to Ganapathi—these men she would once have overlooked entirely had somehow become central to her exploration of desire, had introduced her to aspects of herself she hadn't known existed.



"Who am I becoming?" she wondered as she slipped between cool sheets, her body still humming with remembered sensation. The question followed her into dreams filled with mouths and tongues and sweetness that tasted of forbidden fruit.



In the security guard's quarters at the base of the apartment building, Ramlal closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his legs still trembling from the encounter. He looked down at his uniform trousers, at the dark stain spreading across the front, evidence of his uncontrolled release. In sixty years of life, no woman had ever made him climax without direct contact, had ever brought him to such heights with nothing more than her weight on his lap and her mouth against his.



"God," he whispered, his hand moving to touch the dampness, confirming the reality of what had happened. "She made me finish like a collegeboy."



He changed quickly, washing himself at the small basin in the corner of his room, his mind replaying the events of the evening in vivid detail. The taste of her—clean and sweet, untainted by the paan he chewed daily. The softness of her lips, the unexpected boldness of her tongue, the way she had commanded him to spit into her mouth, to share the most intimate fluid.



"Kerala flavor," he murmured, remembering how he had described her taste. "Sweeter than any kulfi."



As he prepared for bed, laying out his uniform for the morning shift, Ramlal found himself touching his lips, seeking some lingering trace of her. The memory of her weight on his lap, of her bottom pressing against his hardness, of her deliberate movements that had triggered his release—all of it seemed dreamlike in its improbability. A woman like her, educated and refined, choosing to share such intimacy with him, a simple security guard with stained teeth and calloused hands.



"She will regret it tomorrow," he told himself, trying to temper the joy that threatened to overwhelm him. "When she remembers, she will be disgusted."



Yet he fell asleep with her taste still on his tongue, his dreams filled with sweetness and the echo of her whispered words: "Love you."



Morning arrived with deceptive normalcy, sunlight streaming through Devika's bedroom window, birds chattering on the ledge outside. She dressed with care, selecting a deep purple silk saree with a silver border, dbanging it with practiced precision around her body. Her fingers traced the mehandi patterns on her palms, now fully developed into rich brown designs that would fade gradually over the coming days—unlike the memories they were associated with, which seemed burned permanently into her consciousness.



As she descended the stairs of her apartment building, her heart quickened at the sight of Ramlal at his post. He stood straighter as she approached, uncertainty and hope mingling in his expression. Their eyes met, and for a moment neither spoke, the events of the previous evening hanging between them like an unacknowledged presence.



Glancing around to ensure they were alone, Devika allowed herself a small, secret gesture. She pursed her lips in a silent kiss, her tongue darting out to lick slowly across them, a deliberate reminder of what they had shared. The effect on Ramlal was immediate—a visible shudder passing through his body, his eyes widening behind his glasses.



"Good morning, madam," he managed, his voice slightly hoarse.



"Good morning, Ramlal," she replied, the formal greeting at odds with the heat in her gaze. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"



She continued past him, feeling his eyes follow her progress down the street, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.



At the college, Devika found herself unable to focus on her lecture notes, her mind repeatedly drifting to the previous evening—to the taste of Ramlal on her tongue, to the boldness she had discovered within herself. The staff room hummed with the usual morning activity, colleagues discussing assignments and department politics, yet she remained apart, wrapped in the cocoon of her private thoughts.



"Professor Devika."



She looked up to find Ganapathi standing before her desk, several files clutched in his weathered hands. Their eyes met, and something passed between them—a shared memory of storm-lashed intimacy, of hands on waist, of bodies pressed together on a thin mat.



"Ganapathi," she acknowledged, her voice carefully neutral. "You were absent yesterday."



He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the files he carried. "Yes, madam. I was... a little tired after the weekend."



"I see," she said, studying his face, wondering what had transpired after she had left his small home. Had he regretted their encounter? Had he spent the day reliving it as she had?



Ganapathi glanced around the staff room, confirming no one was within earshot, then reached into his pocket. "Madam, I have something of yours," he said, his voice lowered to ensure privacy. "You forgot this... that day."



He slipped a small bundle onto her desk, partially concealed beneath the files. Devika looked down and felt heat flood her face as she recognized the scrap of blue fabric—her panty, left behind in his home during the storm, forgotten in her haste to reclaim her own clothes and identity.



"Oh," she gasped, immediately covering it with her hand, sliding it into her bag with as much discretion as possible. "I didn't realize—"



"It's not like normal ones," Ganapathi continued, his voice still low but carrying an unmistakable note of appreciation. "Very fancy fabric. Must look nice... very sexy on your—" He hesitated, then finished, "—on your bottom."



Devika stared at him, shock mingling with embarrassment and something else—a flicker of heat at the knowledge that he had handled such an intimate garment, had perhaps done more than handle it.



"Please don't discuss this here," she whispered urgently. "And you shouldn't have brought it to me in public."



"Sorry, madam," Ganapathi nodded, understanding immediately. "No one saw. I made sure. I just thought you might want it back."



"Thank you," she said stiffly, unable to meet his eyes. "You can go now."



As he walked away, Devika's hand remained on her bag, feeling the small bundle of fabric within like a burning coal. The realization struck her suddenly—Ganapathi had kept her panty for days, had examined it closely enough to form opinions about how it might look on her body. The image of him using it for his pleasure formed unbidden in her mind, causing a confused mixture of disgust and unexpected arousal to course through her.



"What is happening to me?" she wondered, her world continuing its slow, inexorable tilt into territory she had never imagined exploring.





# Scene 2



The biology laboratory hummed with the low murmur of students preparing their workstations, the familiar scent of formaldehyde and alcohol hanging in the air. Devika moved between the benches, her purple silk saree whispering against the smooth floor as she arranged microscope slides for the day's practical class. Her mind still churned with the morning's encounter—Ganapathi returning her forgotten underwear, the knowledge that he had kept it, had likely used it for his pleasure. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost missed the hushed conversation coming from the corner where Vishnu and Pathan stood, their heads bent close together, unaware of her approach.



"I'm telling you," Vishnu was saying, his voice low but clear enough to reach her ears, "when I lifted her yesterday, it was like holding a ripe mango. So soft, man."



Pathan leaned closer, his expression eager. "You actually felt her ass? Through the saree?"



"Of course," Vishnu replied, a smirk spreading across his face. "My hands were right here." He cupped his hands in the air, mimicking the curve of buttocks. "The saree is just one layer. I could feel everything."



Devika froze behind a tall cabinet, her heart suddenly racing. They were discussing her—her body, the moment when Vishnu had lifted her to reach the shelf in the previous day's class. She should have stepped forward immediately, should have silenced their inappropriate conversation with a sharp reprimand. Instead, she found herself holding perfectly still, straining to hear more.



"Was she heavy?" Pathan asked, eyes gleaming with interest.



Vishnu shook his head. "No, surprisingly light. But so plump in all the right places." His hands continued their descriptive gesture. "And when I slid her down, her chest pressed against mine. I could feel her softness there too."



"Lucky bastard," Pathan muttered, punching Vishnu's shoulder lightly. "I've been watching those hips move in her saree for months. The way they sway when she walks to the blackboard..."



"We can't wait any longer," Vishnu said, his tone shifting to something more serious. "We need a plan. Some way to—"



Devika stepped forward then, unable to listen further without revealing herself. The sound of her approaching footsteps caused both young men to straighten abruptly, their expressions transforming from conspiratorial to innocently attentive with practiced ease.



"Good morning, Professor," they chorused, Vishnu's smile revealing nothing of his previous conversation.



"Vishnu, Pathan," she acknowledged, fighting to keep her voice steady, to hide the fact that she'd overheard them objectifying her so brazenly. "Please prepare your microscopes. We're examining cell division phases today."



She moved away, her skin burning with the knowledge of how they saw her—not as their professor, not as an accomplished biologist, but as a collection of curves to be assessed and desired. The worst part was not their disrespect but her own reaction to it—the small, treacherous thrill that had coursed through her at hearing herself described as desirable, as worth scheming over.



The practical class proceeded with outward normalcy. Devika demonstrated the proper technique for staining the slides, helped students adjust their microscopes, and answered questions about the phases they were observing. Yet her awareness of Vishnu and Pathan remained heightened, her body suddenly conscious of itself in ways it hadn't been before—the sway of her hips as she walked between benches, the brush of her saree pallu against her breast when she reached across a table, the curve of her waist when she bent to examine a student's work.



After an hour, the students settled into making notes and sketches of their observations. Devika sat at her desk at the front of the laboratory, ostensibly reviewing papers but actually stealing glances at Vishnu and Pathan, who had taken seats near each other, their heads bent over their notebooks.



"Hey," Vishnu said suddenly, his voice carrying easily in the quiet room. "I meant to tell you—I got that photography contract."



Pathan looked up, surprise evident on his face. "What? When did this happen?"



"Yesterday," Vishnu replied, his voice pitched just loud enough to be heard clearly across the laboratory. "Remember that application I sent to that big advertising agency? They called me back."



"That's amazing!" Pathan exclaimed, reaching over to clap his friend on the shoulder. "Congratulations, man!"



Vishnu's expression shifted, a shadow crossing his features. "Thanks, but I'm not sure I can celebrate yet."



"Why not? This is huge news."



Devika found herself listening intently, her pen hovering motionless above the paper she was supposedly marking. Though their conversation seemed innocuous, something about Vishnu's careful projection of his voice made her suspect it was meant for her ears.



"I got the contract, but I'm in trouble," Vishnu explained, sighing heavily. "I hired models for the test shoot last week—spent almost all my savings on them—but the committee wasn't happy with the female model."



"What was wrong with her?" Pathan asked, frowning.



"Everything," Vishnu groaned, running a hand through his hair in apparent frustration. "They said she looked too artificial, too much like a typical model. They want someone who looks real, authentic. Now I have one week to find a new model or they'll drop the contract."



Devika kept her eyes on her papers, but her attention remained fixed on their conversation. It seemed strangely convenient that this discussion was happening within her earshot, especially after she had caught them talking about her body earlier.



"So find someone else," Pathan suggested, shrugging as if the solution were obvious.



"It's not that simple," Vishnu countered. "They have very specific requirements for the female model. She needs to be homely but elegant, traditional but with a certain... appeal."



"What kind of appeal?" Pathan asked, leaning forward with renewed interest.



Vishnu lowered his voice slightly, though not enough to prevent Devika from hearing. "They want a married woman—someone with that special quality married women have. Not too skinny, not too heavy. Perfect proportions. And she needs to look good in a saree, really good."



"That's a tall order in Pune," Pathan said, whistling softly. "Most of the women who might fit that description wouldn't agree to model."



"I know," Vishnu agreed miserably. "That's why I think I'll have to drop the contract."



Pathan's eyes widened. "How much is this contract worth anyway?"



"Twenty-five lakhs," Vishnu replied, the figure hanging in the air like a physical presence.



Devika couldn't prevent the small intake of breath that escaped her. Twenty-five lakhs was an enormous sum—more than her annual salary as a professor. She glanced quickly at the young men before returning her gaze to her papers, not wanting them to catch her eavesdropping.



"Twenty-five lakhs?" Pathan repeated, his voice cracking slightly. "Are you serious?"



"Completely serious," Vishnu confirmed. "It's a major national campaign. That's why I'm so devastated about having to drop it."



"How much of that goes to the models?" Pathan asked, clearly calculating in his head.



"Fifteen lakhs for the female model alone," Vishnu said, sighing again. "Two lakhs for the male model. The rest would be my fee and production costs."



"Fifteen lakhs just to pose for some photos?" Pathan shook his head in disbelief. "No wonder you're upset about losing this."



Vishnu nodded gloomily. "It's not just photos. There would be a few short video clips too—nothing complicated, just the model in various poses, maybe walking a little. That's why the pay is so high."



Devika found her heart beating faster, her mind racing with calculations of her own. Fifteen lakhs would solve so many problems—the loan on her apartment that Anand had taken out before leaving for Dubai, the money she still owed her parents for her education, the nest egg she had always dreamed of building. And all for just posing in a saree, something she wore every day anyway.



"What exactly are they looking for in this model?" Pathan asked, his tone suggesting genuine curiosity rather than the calculated performance Devika was beginning to suspect.



"Someone who embodies traditional Indian beauty," Vishnu explained, warming to his topic. "Graceful movements, expressive eyes, curves in the right places. Someone who wears a saree like it's a second skin, not a costume. Preferably someone with that glow married women have—you know what I mean."



"I know exactly what you mean," Pathan agreed, nodding sagely. "Like our Professor Devika. Have you noticed how she moves in a saree? Like she was born wearing one."



Devika felt heat flood her face at the direct mention of her name. She kept her eyes firmly on her papers, though the words swam before her vision, rendered meaningless by the thundering of her pulse in her ears.



"Actually," Vishnu said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that nevertheless carried clearly to where she sat, "I did think of asking Professor Devika first. She's exactly what they're looking for. But how could I? She's our professor. It would be too... inappropriate."



"Probably," Pathan agreed reluctantly. "Though fifteen lakhs is fifteen lakhs. Maybe she would have considered it."



"No way," Vishnu sighed. "A respected professor like her wouldn't do modeling work. Especially not for a student's project."



Their words hung in the air like bait on a hook, and Devika found herself swimming toward it despite knowing better. The seed had been planted—the thought that she could be that model, could earn that money, could be seen as beautiful enough to represent traditional Indian beauty on a national scale. It was flattering in a way that overrode her natural suspicion about the convenience of this conversation.



She tried to focus on her marking, but her mind kept circling back to their words, to the possibility they had inadvertently presented. Fifteen lakhs for something as simple as modeling in a saree. It seemed too good to be true—and perhaps it was. Yet the temptation remained, growing stronger with each passing minute as the laboratory fell silent except for the scratch of pens on paper and the occasional click of a microscope adjustment.





# Scene 3



Devika's pen tapped against her desk in an uneven rhythm, a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. Fifteen lakhs. The figure repeated itself in her mind, a siren song of possibilities. With that money, she could clear the loan on her apartment, could build a safety net that didn't depend on Anand's sporadic remittances from Dubai. But to pose as a model? For her own students? The impropriety of it struck her as both obvious and somehow irrelevant after the boundaries she had already crossed with Ramlal, with Ganapathi, with these very students who discussed her body as if she were an object to be assessed rather than their professor.



She glanced at her reflection in the glass cabinet beside her desk—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the dbang of her saree across her shoulder. Was she truly what they were looking for? A traditional beauty, a woman who wore her saree "like a second skin"? The idea that she might be considered model material at thirty-two, with her full hips and soft waist, seemed simultaneously flattering and absurd.



Yet the seed had been planted, taking root in soil already loosened by recent explorations beyond the boundaries of propriety. Why shouldn't she be the model? Why shouldn't she earn that money, experience that attention, explore this new facet of herself that had been emerging since her arrival in Pune?



Before she could reconsider, Devika set down her pen and rose from her desk. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she crossed the laboratory, her saree whispering against the smooth floor. Vishnu and Pathan looked up as she approached, their expressions carefully neutral despite the triumph surely blooming within them.



"Excuse me," she said, her voice emerging steadier than she expected. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation." She paused, gathering her courage. "Do you think I might fit the requirements for the model you're seeking?"



The shock that transformed their faces seemed genuine, though something in Vishnu's eyes—a flash of calculation quickly masked—made her wonder if this had been their intention all along. Pathan's mouth actually fell open, while Vishnu jerked upright so suddenly that his pen clattered to the floor.



"Professor Devika!" Vishnu exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly. "Are you serious?"



"I'm simply asking if you think I would be suitable," she replied, suddenly self-conscious under their intense scrutiny. "You seemed to suggest it might be a possibility."



Vishnu stood, his expression cycling through disbelief, hope, and what appeared to be genuine excitement. "Suitable? You're perfect! You're exactly what they're looking for!" His enthusiasm dimmed slightly, replaced by a show of concern. "But I never imagined you would consider it. You're our professor—I didn't want to be disrespectful by asking."



"I appreciate your consideration," Devika said, smoothing her saree with slightly trembling fingers. "But I believe I'm capable of separating professional matters from... other opportunities."



"You would really do it?" Pathan interjected, standing now as well, his eyes wide with apparent amazement. "Model for Vishnu's project?"



"I'm considering it," she clarified, unwilling to commit fully until she understood more. "But I would have concerns about where these photos might appear. I have a professional reputation to maintain."



Vishnu nodded vigorously, his expression earnest. "Of course, Professor. The photos are exclusively for the private committee making the selection. I have to sign an agreement that the images won't be shared outside the evaluation process. They're very strict about it."



"And this committee," Devika pressed, still not entirely convinced. "Who exactly are they?"



"Senior executives from the advertising agency and representatives from the client," Vishnu explained smoothly. "All professionals, very discreet. The entire process is confidential."



Devika considered this, weighing the risk against the potential reward. Fifteen lakhs. Financial security. And beneath these practical considerations, something else—a thrill at the thought of being seen, of being admired, of exploring this new dimension of herself that had been awakening since her arrival in Pune.



"What exactly would this photoshoot involve?" she asked, her voice dropping slightly, aware of other students in the laboratory who might overhear. "What would I need to do?"



Vishnu hesitated, glancing at Pathan as if seeking support. "Well, it would mainly be traditional poses in different sarees. Various styles, different blouses—sleeveless, strapless, that sort of thing."



"That sounds straightforward enough," Devika said, relief evident in her tone. If that was all—just modeling different sarees—then perhaps this wasn't so inappropriate after all.



"There would also be..." Vishnu paused, seeming to struggle for words. "Some more... artistic shots."



"Artistic?" Devika repeated, uncertainty creeping back into her voice. "What do you mean by artistic?"



Vishnu shifted his weight from one foot to the other, apparent discomfort written across his features. "This is why I hesitated to mention it to you. The campaign is for a high-end saree brand that wants to showcase the... sensuality of traditional Indian clothing."



Devika felt heat rising in her cheeks. "I'm not sure I understand."



"They want photos that highlight certain... features," Vishnu continued, his voice dropping even lower. "The curve of the hips, the fold where the waist meets the hip, the navel, the arms... and," he hesitated again, then pushed forward, "the cleavage."



"Exposed?" Devika heard herself say, the word emerging as more exclamation than question.



"Not nude," Vishnu clarified quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Just... emphasized. The saree dbangd to reveal rather than conceal. Some shots with the pallu dropped from the shoulder, arms raised to show the curve of the body. That sort of thing."



Devika's mind raced, trying to envision what he was describing. Not nudity, but suggestion. Not exposure, but emphasis. Still, it was far more intimate than she had initially imagined.



"I see," she said slowly, still processing this new information. "And you think I would be suitable for this type of... artistic photography?"



"You would be perfect," Vishnu assured her, his eyes briefly dropping to her waist before returning to her face. "You have exactly the kind of natural beauty they're looking for. Not artificial or overly thin like professional models."



Despite herself, Devika felt a flutter of pleasure at his assessment. To be considered beautiful, to be seen as desirable—these were affirmations she had been starved for during the long months of Anand's absence, of his emotional distance even before his physical departure.



"There's one more aspect I should mention," Vishnu added, glancing again at Pathan. "Some of the photos would involve... a male model as well."



"A male model?" Devika repeated, her pulse quickening. "What kind of photos?"



"Couple photos," Vishnu explained, the words coming faster now, as if he wanted to get through this part quickly. "The campaign is about the relationship between tradition and intimacy. There would be poses of the couple together—embracing, the man's hands on the woman's waist, some more... intimate moments."



"How intimate?" Devika asked, her mouth suddenly dry.



"Nothing explicit," Vishnu assured her. "Just suggestions of affection. Hugging, cuddling, and..." he hesitated one final time, "a few kissing poses."



The laboratory seemed to recede around Devika, the ambient sounds of students working fading beneath the thundering of her pulse in her ears. Kissing poses. With a male model. A stranger. The thought sent conflicting waves of apprehension and unexpected excitement through her body.



"I see," she said again, buying time as she processed this final revelation. "That's considerably more involved than I initially understood."



"I told you it was inappropriate to ask her," Pathan interjected, elbowing Vishnu with a convincing display of reproach.



"I haven't said no," Devika clarified, surprising herself with the admission. "I'm just... considering all aspects. The single model photos sound manageable. The couple photos are more concerning."



Hope bloomed across Vishnu's face. "You could do just the single model photos if you prefer. Though the full contract really requires both."



"And who would be the male model?" Devika asked, unable to stop herself from wondering who would play the role of her photographic partner, whose hands would rest on her waist, whose lips might press against hers in these "artistic" poses.



"Well," Vishnu said thoughtfully, "rather than hiring someone unknown, I could ask Pathan. Since they're not focusing on the male model anyway, and it might be more comfortable for you to work with someone you know rather than a stranger."



Devika's eyes met Pathan's, and something electric passed between them—a recognition of possibility, of boundaries that might be crossed under the guise of art, of commerce. His eyes, usually so confident, held a question now, an uncertainty that somehow made him seem more vulnerable, more human.



"I need time to think about this," she said finally, breaking the charged silence that had fallen between them. "This is not a decision to make lightly."



"Of course, Professor," Vishnu agreed eagerly. "Take all the time you need. But if you could let me know within the week? The deadline for confirming a model is approaching."



"I understand," Devika nodded. "I'll think about it and let you know."



She returned to her desk, her mind swirling with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Behind her, she could almost feel the triumphant glances being exchanged between Vishnu and Pathan, could almost hear their unspoken congratulations at having planted their seed so successfully in fertile soil. Yet even suspecting their manipulation didn't diminish her interest—fifteen lakhs was fifteen lakhs, and the opportunity to be seen, to be admired, to explore this new facet of herself was compelling in ways she couldn't fully articulate even to herself.



The laboratory session ended, students filing out with their completed assignments. Vishnu and Pathan were the last to leave, pausing at the door to offer final reassurances.



"No pressure, Professor," Vishnu said, his tone carefully calibrated to sound respectful rather than eager. "But I really believe you would be perfect for this."



"We'll await your decision," Pathan added, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that spoke of more than just photographic potential.



When they had gone, Devika sat alone in the empty laboratory, the afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the still air. Her fingers absently traced the border of her saree where it crossed her shoulder, imagining how it might look drooping artfully to reveal more skin, more curve, more of the woman she was becoming in this strange new chapter of her life.



"Fifteen lakhs," she whispered to the empty room, the figure still echoing in her mind like a promise, like a temptation, like a door opening to possibilities she had never dared to imagine before coming to Pune.

[prady12191]

[shobhitaits]

nice update

[Emulove]

Man you are genius...your narration is smooth

[Sage_69]

Devika going full independent woman mode.

[Thilka]

Excellent

[opendoor]

Devika

[StoryReader1]

Pl continue

[exbiixossip2]

hi bro...
hot and sex seduce update with hot pics

[Emulove]

Bro plz update frequently

[exbiixossip2]

hi bro..

bahut hi mast story ja rahi hai.... apne pics bahut hi kam se kam use ki hai... Devika ki

[tamannanav]

waiting for her crazy poses in saree all grabbing,pressing,kissings wow

[prady12191]

[prady12191]

[Fuckstar]

Kulfi eating process explained in the best and most sexiest way ever..... Waiting for more updates on Devika's encounters and closeness with Ramlal, Seenu and Ganpathi.....

[exbiixossip2]

hi bro...

kya kar raho ho yaar aise mausam me to Dimaag ki or ...... ki KLPD mat karo yaar

next update de do wo bhi pahle se hot to hot or is baar devika ke Ramlal ya Ganpati boobs suck kare....

half nude karao use....

Devika or Pathan ki gif send kar raha hoon. next update ke liye.. or pathn devika ko apne dhaaram ke kapde pahnakar modling karne ko kahta hai husband wife ke jaise...