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

[exbiixossip2]

today update please bro..

according to your commitment

hot and sex seducing update with hot pics

[prady12191]

I remember saying I’d give an update after August 14, but this is an AI-generated story and it’s quite costly. Due to my current situation, I’m unable to afford it at the moment.

[abcturbine]

its awesome..if you have some spare time..write it yourself....
i am sure you have amazing writing skills.....

[exbiixossip2]

aap apne hisaab se update write kar sakte hai....

ai ko jane do...

[Emulove]

Bro we are eagerly waiting for your response....

[Paul5]

Please update too much time

[prady12191]

I couldn’t maintain continuity, but still managed to continue — though in a different sequence

[prady12191]

The college day finally ended. Devika gathered her things, her mind still troubled by the practical class. Pathan and Vishnu's predatory behavior had left her feeling exposed and vulnerable again, despite her attempts to maintain professional composure. As she walked to the parking area, dark clouds gathered overhead, promising heavy rain.

When she reached her scooter, she inserted the key and turned it. Nothing happened. She tried again, pressing the starter button repeatedly, but the engine refused to come alive. Frustrated, she checked the fuel tank—it was half full. Something else was wrong.

"Not today of all days," she muttered, looking up at the darkening sky.

After several more failed attempts, Devika reluctantly accepted her situation. She'd have to take the bus home. Glancing at her watch, she realized the next local bus would arrive in about ten minutes. With a sigh, she adjusted her bag across her shoulder and headed toward the bus stop.

The thought of taking public transportation made her uneasy. It had been years since she'd traveled by bus in a city. In Kerala, she'd always had her father's car or Rajeevan would drive her. Since coming to Pune, her scooter had been her only mode of transport.

A few drops of rain began to fall as she reached the bus stop. Several people were already waiting—laborers returning from work, a few college students, and old men with weathered faces. When the bus finally arrived, it was already crowded. Devika hesitated, then joined the pushing throng entering through the door.

Inside, bodies pressed against her from all directions. The humid air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and wet clothes. She clutched her bag tightly to her chest, trying to maintain some personal space as she moved deeper into the bus.

"Madam, please move inside!" the conductor shouted over the noise.

Devika pushed further in, finding herself surrounded almost entirely by men. She grabbed a overhead bar for support as the bus lurched forward. Almost immediately, she felt numerous eyes turn in her direction. Her elegant saree and sophisticated appearance clearly marked her as different from the usual passengers.

"College professor," she heard someone whisper. "Looks like Kerala."

She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, maintaining a neutral expression despite her discomfort. The bus jolted over a pothole, causing everyone to sway. Devika steadied herself, gripping the bar tighter.

As the journey continued, she became aware of an elderly man, perhaps in his sixties, gradually making his way toward her through the crowd. He had gray hair and wore simple cotton clothes that had seen better days. His weathered face bore deep wrinkles, especially around his eyes.

Eventually, he positioned himself directly behind her. Devika tried to shift forward, but the crowded bus offered nowhere to go. At first, she thought nothing of it—the bus was packed, after all. But then she felt him standing unnecessarily close, his breath faintly reaching the back of her neck.

When the bus took a sharp turn, everyone lurched sideways. The old man stumbled against her, his front pressing firmly against her back. Devika stiffened, expecting him to move away immediately with an apology. Instead, he remained pressed against her for several seconds longer than necessary.

She turned her head, giving him a sharp, disapproving look. Their eyes met briefly. His were rheumy with age but held a glint that made her uncomfortable.

"Sorry, daughter," he mumbled in Hindi. "Bus is too crowded. No place to stand properly."

Devika faced forward again, trying to dismiss the incident. Perhaps she was being oversensitive after the day's events with Pathan and Vishnu.

The bus hit another bump. This time, she distinctly felt the man's groin press against her backside, lingering there even after the bus stabilized. Heat rose to her cheeks—partly from embarrassment, partly from anger. Was this deliberate? From an elderly man who could be her grandfather?

She shifted her position, trying to create distance between them, but the press of bodies around made it impossible. The man coughed softly, adjusting his position—moving slightly closer rather than away.

When the bus braked suddenly at the next stop, he collided with her again. This time, there was no mistaking his intentional movement—the slight circular motion of his hips as he pressed against her.

Devika turned around fully, her eyes flashing with indignation.

"Excuse me," she said coldly in English, loud enough for nearby passengers to hear.

The old man's face arranged itself into an expression of innocent confusion. "What happened, madam? Bus is moving, I am old man. Cannot stand properly."

Several passengers glanced their way, then quickly averted their eyes, unwilling to get involved.

Devika considered creating a scene, calling out his behavior publicly. But something held her back. The crowd seemed indifferent. Would they believe a well-dressed woman over a harmless-looking elderly man? Would they dismiss her as overreacting?

She turned away again, jaw clenched, heart pounding. The remainder of the journey stretched before her like an eternity. The old man remained behind her, seemingly emboldened by her silence. Each time the bus swerved or stopped, she felt his body against hers—deliberate, testing her limits.

Devika's mind raced. If she confronted him more aggressively, the entire bus would turn to watch the spectacle. She'd become the center of unwanted attention, possibly viewed as hysterical. Yet remaining silent made her complicit in her own violation, however minor it might seem to others.

The rain was falling heavily now, drumming against the roof of the bus. Water leaked through a crack in the window, forming a small puddle by her feet. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour, squeaking rhythmically.

Devika kept her face impassive, but inside, a quiet fury was building. This old man—like Pathan, like Vishnu, like so many others—assumed her body was available for his pleasure, however fleeting. That her discomfort was irrelevant compared to his desire.

Her stop was approaching. Just a few more minutes of this humiliation, and she could escape. The old man leaned forward slightly, as if reading the destination board, his body pressing more firmly against hers.

"Next stop is mine too," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

Devika remained stone-faced, refusing to acknowledge him. The bus slowed, approaching her stop. She prepared to move toward the exit, silently vowing that tomorrow, she would fix her scooter or take a auto-rickshaw, no matter the cost.

As the bus lurched to a halt, she stepped forward, finally breaking contact with her tormentor. Freedom was just steps away. But as she moved toward the exit, she felt a hand brush deliberately across her waist—a final violation before she could escape.

The bus lurched around another corner, throwing passengers against each other. Devika braced herself against the overhead rail, her knuckles whitening with the effort. The old man behind her used the momentum as an excuse, pressing his body deliberately against hers. His chest made contact with her back, the fabric of his cotton kurta thin enough that she could feel the contours of his body.

Devika tensed but remained silent. His breath came in hot, uneven puffs against her neck—the distinctive sour-sweet smell of paan mixed with tobacco making her nostrils flare with disgust. She could taste the scent on the back of her tongue, acrid and intrusive.

Another jolt, another "accidental" bump. This time, his pelvis pressed firmly against her backside, lingering there with deliberate pressure. Devika shot a sharp look over her shoulder, her eyes flashing with anger.

The man's weathered face arranged itself into an expression of innocence. "Sorry, madam," he mumbled, but made no effort to create distance between them.

Devika faced forward again, wondering why she didn't simply create a scene. The answer troubled her—a strange, perverse curiosity had taken root. How far would this elderly man go in a crowded public bus? The thought repulsed her, yet she found herself waiting, observing his boldness with detached fascination.

The man, emboldened by her silence, moved his hand to the metal bar where hers gripped for support. His rough, calloused fingers inched closer until they brushed against hers.

Devika glared at him again, pulling her hand forward along the bar. But space was limited, and the old man simply followed, his fingers trailing after hers like predators pursuing prey. When she could move no further, his fingers settled against hers again, this time applying gentle pressure.

"Such soft hands," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the bus's engine and the patter of rain against the windows.

A drop of sweat trickled down Devika's back despite the air conditioning. The day's exertions had left damp patches under her arms, visible as darker blotches on her blouse. She noticed the man's gaze drawn to them, his eyes widening with an almost feral intensity.

He leaned in, ostensibly to keep his balance as the bus swerved, his face coming close to her shoulder. Devika felt him inhale deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent—the mixture of jasmine perfume, coconut oil, and the natural musk of her body after a long workday.

"You smell so sweet," he murmured directly into her ear, his voice dropping to ensure only she could hear. "Like a woman should smell. So sexy."

The blatant declaration froze Devika in place. There was no mistaking his intentions now, no possibility of misinterpretation. His words—direct and vulgar—confirmed what his actions had suggested.

A confusing sensation coursed through her body. Revulsion, certainly—but also a disturbing thrill at witnessing such raw, unfiltered desire. This man, old enough to be her father, perhaps even grandfather, was risking public humiliation just to press against her, to smell her, to feel her warmth.

Devika's body betrayed her in that moment. Instead of the slap he deserved, instead of the public shaming she could have unleashed, she found herself standing rigid, unwilling to escalate but equally unwilling to move away. It wasn't attraction—far from it—but a kind of morbid fascination, a clinical interest in observing male desire in its most unvarnished form.

She turned her head slightly, fixing him with a stern, unyielding stare. The look communicated clear displeasure, a boundary firmly drawn. Yet she said nothing. No verbal protest passed her lips.

The old man's eyes gleamed with understanding—not of her disgust, but of what he perceived as silent permission to continue. His lips curled into a slight smile, revealing paan-stained teeth.

The bus continued its journey through rain-slicked streets, every pothole and turn bringing new contact between them. Devika remained stoic, her face a mask of indifference even as her mind raced with conflicting thoughts.

Was this what Saradha had meant about power? Not just wielding it actively, but observing how desperately men pursued even the illusion of intimacy? This pathetic old man would remember this encounter for weeks, perhaps months—while for her, it would be forgotten by evening, merged with all the other unwanted attentions she navigated daily.

As her stop approached, Devika prepared to exit, gathering her bag closer. The old man sensed her imminent departure and pressed closer one final time, his breathing quickening against her neck.

"Next time wear perfume here," he whispered, his finger briefly touching the hollow of her throat. "For me."

Devika watched the doors slide open at her stop, hesitating for just a moment before stepping off the bus. The rain had turned to a light drizzle, dampening her saree and sticking the fabric to her ankles. Behind her, she felt the old man shift forward, clearly intending to follow.

She stepped away quickly, deliberately turning toward the narrow lane that would take her home rather than waiting for the pedestrian crossing. From the corner of her eye, she saw him hovering at the bus door, his weathered face frozen in disappointment when the driver honked impatiently and closed the doors. The bus pulled away, leaving him pressed against the window, his eyes following her until the vehicle turned the corner.

Devika wrapped her arms around herself as she walked through the puddle-strewn lane. Her apartment was just five minutes away, but the journey stretched before her as her mind replayed the incident. Why had she remained silent? She, who had stood up to Seenu, who had confronted Rajeevan about his infidelity, had allowed this stranger's violations without protest.

"I should have slapped him," she muttered, stepping around a deep puddle. "Should have shouted, made everyone look."

Yet something had held her back—not fear exactly, but a strange, detached curiosity. She had wanted to observe how far he would go, as if studying a specimen under her laboratory microscope. The realization disturbed her more than the man's actions

Devika's footsteps dragged as she approached her apartment building, her body and mind equally exhausted from the day's events. The rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles that reflected the streetlights in shimmering patterns. As she neared the entrance, Ramlal straightened his posture, his weathered face breaking into an eager smile.

"Good evening, Madam. Rain has made everything wet. You are safe?" His eyes lingered on her damp saree, clinging to her curves where the moisture had seeped through.

"I'm fine," she replied curtly, avoiding his gaze. Her encounter with the elderly man on the bus had left her wary of all male attention, particularly from men his age.

As she climbed the stairs to her floor, she felt eyes on her from across the landing. Milind Kulkarni stood in his doorway, pretending to check his mail. His gaze slid over her body with practiced subtlety, lingering on her waist where his hands had been just yesterday. Devika quickened her pace, pretending not to notice him.

Inside her apartment, she locked the door and leaned against it, exhaling heavily. The silence enveloped her—a reminder of her solitude in this city of predators. She moved to the window, drawing the curtains closed against the night and any watching eyes.

Sinking onto her bed, Devika stared at the ceiling fan rotating lazily above. How had her life become this gauntlet of male desire? Seenu at college, watching her through CCTV cameras. Ramlal at the entrance, his rheumy eyes following her movements. Milind Kulkarni with his "medical massage" that was anything but professional. Pathan and Vishnu in the practical class, finding excuses to brush against her. And now random strangers on buses, emboldened by her silence.

"They're all old enough to be my father," she whispered to the empty room, disgust and confusion mingling in her voice. Even the two students were taking advantage of Seenu's "special practical class" arrangement—a trap she couldn't escape without risking her position at the college.

Her phone lay on the bedside table, Rajeevan's contact information visible when she picked it up. Her finger hovered over the call button. Perhaps she should apologize for their fight, try to salvage what remained of their marriage. But the memory of the video—his arm around another woman, their laughter intermingling—stopped her cold.

"Why should I apologize when he's the one who betrayed our vows?" she asked herself, setting the phone down without making the call.

Devika moved to the bathroom, peeling off her damp saree and blouse. As she stood before the mirror, she examined her reflection—the body that had become both her prison and her currency in this new life. So many eyes had claimed pieces of her today, leaving her feeling fragmented and dispersed among their hungry gazes.

"Tomorrow," she promised her reflection, "tomorrow will be different." But even as she spoke the words, uncertainty clouded her resolve. In this web of manipulation and desire, she was both spider and fly—and she wasn't sure which role would ultimately consume her.

[prady12191]

The next morning arrived with a heavy blanket of humid air that clung to Devika's skin as she made her way to the college. The events of yesterday weighed on her mind—the uncomfortable encounter on the bus, Kulkarni's lingering stares, and the way even Ramlal's eyes had followed her movements. She felt like prey surrounded by predators, each waiting for their moment.

Inside the staff room, Devika settled at her usual corner desk, spreading papers before her but unable to focus. Her mind kept returning to the elderly man on the bus—his brazen touch, his whispered words. Why hadn't she slapped him? Why had she frozen instead? The questions churned inside her, leaving her feeling hollow and confused.

Saradha entered the staff room, her bangles jingling softly as she set her bag down at a nearby desk. She glanced over, immediately noticing Devika's distracted state—the younger woman's eyes unfocused, fingers absently tracing patterns on the wooden desk.

"Everything alright?" Saradha asked, pulling her chair closer.

Devika nodded automatically. "Yes, fine."

Saradha's experienced eyes studied Devika's face, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. "You don't look fine. Something's troubling you."

"It's nothing," Devika insisted, reshuffling her papers with unnecessary force.

Saradha reached across the desk, gently stilling Devika's restless hands. "We've known each other long enough now. I can tell when something's wrong."

Devika looked up, meeting Saradha's concerned gaze. There was something maternal in the older woman's expression that made Devika's carefully constructed walls begin to crumble.

"It's just..." Devika began, then faltered, glancing around the staff room to ensure they weren't overheard. "These past few days have been... difficult."

Saradha leaned closer. "Tell me."

The dam broke. Words poured from Devika in a hushed torrent—about the elderly man on the bus who'd touched her inappropriately, about Kulkarni's increasing boldness, about the way Vishnu and Pathan stared at her during practical classes, about Ramlal's lingering gaze. She described feeling constantly watched, constantly pursued.

"I don't understand what's happening," Devika concluded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've always been modest, proper. I've never invited this attention. And yet... when these men approach me, I freeze. I can't seem to resist or push back. I just... let it happen."

Saradha listened intently, her expression revealing nothing of the thoughts swirling behind her eyes. When Devika finished, she took a deep breath before responding.

"Have you spoken with your husband about any of this?" Saradha asked gently.

Devika's laugh held no humor. "I've tried. All we do is fight now. I told him about the video someone sent me—him with another woman in Dubai. He denied everything, called me paranoid. Said I was making things up because I was lonely."

"And were you? Lonely, I mean," Saradha probed.

"Of course I was lonely! I still am," Devika admitted, her voice breaking slightly. "But that doesn't mean I imagined him with that woman. I know what I saw."

Saradha nodded thoughtfully, her fingers tapping against the desk. Inside, her mind raced, remembering Pathan's words, his threats backed by compromising photos of her own indiscretion years ago. "Make her starve for lust," he'd ordered, and here was Devika, vulnerable and confused, practically delivering herself.

A pang of guilt shot through Saradha. This wasn't just about saving her own reputation anymore. Devika was genuinely suffering. Perhaps there was a way to fulfill Pathan's demands while actually helping Devika navigate this situation.

"Maybe," Saradha began carefully, "the problem isn't with these men's behavior, but with how you're responding to it."

Devika looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Your husband has betrayed you—multiple times, from what you've described. You've tried reasoning with him, tried saving your marriage, but he refuses to acknowledge his actions." Saradha leaned forward. "Perhaps it's time to consider a different approach to your life."

"What approach?" Devika asked, her voice small.

"You could find someone new," Saradha suggested. "A fresh relationship, someone who appreciates you properly."

Devika shook her head emphatically. "No. All men are the same. They start sweet, then show their true colors. I don't want to be hurt again."

Saradha nodded, as if this was exactly the response she'd expected. "Then why not try something different? Instead of letting these men's attention distress you, why not embrace it—on your terms?"

Devika: "What are you saying?"Saradha: "Listen. Instead of worrying about a husband who doesn’t value you, give importance to the men who actually appreciate your beauty."

Devika stared at Saradha in shock, unable to believe what she was hearing from her senior colleague.

"You want me to... to encourage them?" Devika asked incredulously.

"Not encourage exactly," Saradha clarified, her voice low and reasonable. "Just stop fighting against it. These men are already fascinated by you. Instead of being constantly stressed about their attention, use it to your advantage."

"But that sounds dangerous," Devika protested. "These men—especially Vishnu and Pathan—they don't respect boundaries."

Saradha waved away her concern. "Nothing will be dangerous as long as you keep things within limits. You control how far it goes."

She leaned closer, her voice dropping further. "Don't show your intentions directly. Keep their interest simmering, seduce them subtly, tease them with seeming accidents. Don't overtly attract them, but don't stop them either. Keep everything natural, as if unplanned."

Devika's eyes widened with each suggestion. This was her respected senior speaking—a woman she'd turned to for guidance.

"That's..." Devika struggled for words. "That's manipulative. And wrong."

"Is it?" Saradha countered. "Think about it. Your husband doesn't appreciate you. These men do—albeit in their crude way. Why should you spend your days stressed and fearful when you could reclaim some power in these interactions?"

Devika sat silently, absorbing Saradha's words. Could there be truth in what she was saying? Was there a way to transform her vulnerability into strength?

"The key," Saradha continued, pressing her advantage, "is never allowing them to go too far. Never engage in actual relationships. Keep them wanting, yearning, but always at arm's length. That way, you hold the power."

Devika shook her head slowly. "This doesn't sound like a good idea."

"Perhaps not," Saradha conceded, gathering her papers. "But consider your current situation. You're stressed, frightened, feeling powerless. Is that working for you?"

She stood, placing a gentle hand on Devika's shoulder. "Think about it. It's your life, your choice. You can continue as you are, letting the stress consume you, or you can try a different approach."

With that, Saradha walked away, leaving Devika alone with her thoughts.

Devika remained at her desk long after Saradha had left, her mind tumbling with conflicting emotions. Was Saradha right? Could she transform these uncomfortable encounters into something that gave her control rather than took it away?

She thought about Rajeevan, about the video showing him with another woman. She'd given him years of loyalty, of devotion, and he'd repaid her with betrayal. Why should she continue to hold herself to standards he'd so casually discarded?

Then she thought about Kulkarni, about Vishnu and Pathan, about the elderly man on the bus. Their hungry eyes, their presumptuous touches. The idea of encouraging their attention made her stomach turn. And yet... hadn't she already permitted it to some extent? Hadn't she allowed Kulkarni to touch her navel, even kiss her there? Hadn't she frozen instead of slapping the man on the bus?

Maybe Saradha was right. Maybe her attempts to fight against these encounters were only causing her more stress. Perhaps there was power in acceptance, in redirection, in control.

Devika gathered her papers with unsteady hands, her mind still churning. She wasn't sure what path she would choose, but for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than fear when contemplating these men's attention.

As she left the staff room, she caught sight of Vishnu and Pathan lurking in the corridor. Their eyes tracked her movement, as always. But today, instead of quickening her pace and looking away, Devika met their gaze briefly before continuing on her way.

Their surprised expressions followed her down the hall. They hadn't expected that. For once, she'd done something they hadn't anticipated. And in that tiny moment, she'd felt a flicker of something new—not fear, not embarrassment, but a small, strange sense of power.

Devika wasn't sure if she would follow Saradha's advice. The suggestion still felt wrong, dangerous even. But as she walked toward her classroom, her stride a little more confident than before, she couldn't deny that something had shifted inside her—a small seed of possibility had been planted.

Whether it would grow into strength or lead to her downfall remained to be seen.

[prady12191]

Devika walked toward the practical laboratory with hesitant steps, her mind still churning from Saradha's earlier advice. The conversation replayed in her head—the suggestion to embrace the attention rather than fight it, to find power in control rather than resistance. Her fingers gripped the laboratory keys tighter as she approached the door.

The familiar sound of muffled voices drifted from within. Pathan and Vishnu were already there, just as they had been for their first private session. This was only their second class together, but the memory of their previous encounter lingered uncomfortably in her thoughts—the way their eyes had tracked her every movement, their whispered comments, the casual brushes against her arm that had seemed too deliberate to be accidental.

Devika paused outside the door, taking a steadying breath. She could hear Pathan's deep laughter mixing with Vishnu's quieter chuckles. Whatever they were discussing, it had nothing to do with biology.

She pushed open the door and entered. Both students looked up immediately, their conversation dying mid-sentence. Pathan lounged against one of the laboratory benches, his usual cocky smirk already in place. Vishnu stood beside the microscope setup, his calculating eyes studying her face as if searching for some change in her demeanor.

"Good morning," Devika said, setting her materials on the front desk. "Let's begin today's session on cellular respiration."

She moved to the whiteboard, acutely aware of their gazes following her. As she began writing the day's objectives, she heard Pathan whisper something to Vishnu, followed by another low chuckle.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the class?" Devika asked without turning around.

"Nothing, Madam," Pathan replied, but his tone carried that familiar undercurrent of amusement that suggested otherwise.

Devika turned to face them, marker still in hand. "Then please focus on the lesson."

She began explaining the process of cellular respiration, drawing diagrams and pointing out key concepts. For the first few minutes, both students seemed engaged, asking relevant questions and taking notes. But gradually, their attention began to wander.

"Madam," Vishnu interrupted during her explanation of the electron transport chain, "have you seen any good movies lately?"

Devika paused, surprised by the sudden change in topic. "This isn't the time for—"

"We just watched this amazing romantic film," Pathan chimed in, moving closer to her position at the board. "It was about a married woman who falls in love with a younger man."

Devika felt heat rise in her cheeks. "Please focus on the lesson."

"But it was such a beautiful story," Vishnu continued, also stepping closer. His voice carried a dreamy quality that seemed deliberately exaggerated. "The woman was lonely because her husband didn't understand her. The younger man helped her discover parts of herself she never knew existed."

"That's enough," Devika said firmly, but her voice lacked its usual authority. Something about their description tugged at her thoughts—the lonely wife, the distant husband.

Pathan moved to adjust the microscope, his shoulder brushing against her arm as he reached across her. The contact lasted longer than necessary, his warmth pressing through the thin fabric of her blouse.

"Sorry, Madam," he murmured, not moving away immediately. "Just needed to check the focus."

Devika stepped back, but found herself trapped between Pathan and the laboratory bench. Vishnu appeared on her other side, ostensibly to look at the slide preparation, but positioning himself close enough that she could smell his cologne.

"The best part," Vishnu continued as if their conversation hadn't been interrupted, "was how the woman realized she deserved to be desired. Her husband took her for granted, but this other man saw her beauty."

Despite herself, Devika found the description resonating. Wasn't that exactly her situation with Rajeevan? Hadn't he taken her for granted while pursuing other women?

"Focus on your work," she managed, but her voice had grown softer.

Pathan leaned closer, pretending to examine the diagram she'd drawn. His breath tickled her ear as he spoke. "The woman in the movie was a teacher too. Very beautiful, very intelligent. Just like you, Madam."

Devika's pulse quickened. She should put an end to this conversation immediately, establish proper boundaries. But Saradha's words echoed in her mind—about finding power in these interactions, about not always fighting against them.

"What was the movie called?" she heard herself ask.

Both students exchanged a quick glance, surprised by her engagement. Vishnu smiled, sensing an opening.

"It was called 'Forbidden Hearts,'" he said. "Have you seen it?"

"No, I don't watch such films," Devika replied, then added more quietly, "What happened to the woman in the end?"

Pathan moved closer again, this time reaching past her to point at something on the board. His chest pressed briefly against her back as he extended his arm.

"She learned to value herself," he said, his voice lower now. "She stopped letting others decide her worth."

"But wasn't she married?" Devika asked, her professional persona slipping as curiosity took hold.

"Marriage doesn't mean accepting neglect," Vishnu replied philosophically. "The movie showed that everyone deserves to feel appreciated, to feel desired."

Devika remembered Saradha's words about Vishnu and Pathan lacking family love, growing up without proper guidance. Perhaps their interest in such stories reflected their own emotional needs rather than simple manipulation.

"You both seem to think deeply about relationships," she observed, genuinely curious now. "Is that because of your own family situations?"

The question hung in the air, more personal than anything she'd previously shared with them. Both students looked surprised by her shift toward genuine interest.

"My father is always traveling," Vishnu admitted quietly. "Business comes first. I learned early that you have to take attention when you find it."

Pathan nodded. "My home isn't peaceful. Too much fighting, too much anger. I prefer being here, talking with understanding people like you."

Devika felt a pang of sympathy. Here she'd been viewing them as predators, but perhaps they were simply young men seeking connection, approval, understanding—the very things missing from their family lives.

"That must be difficult," she said softly. "Having unsupportive families."

"It is," Pathan agreed, then added more boldly, "That's why we appreciate spending time with someone like you. You're kind, beautiful, intelligent. You make us feel valued."

The compliment sent warmth through Devika's chest. When was the last time Rajeevan had called her beautiful? When had he last made her feel valued?

"You're both intelligent students," she replied, allowing a smile to touch her lips. "You just need proper guidance."

"Could you recommend some good films?" Vishnu asked. "Romantic ones that show real emotional connections?"

Devika found herself considering the question seriously. "I don't usually watch romantic films, but perhaps..."

They spent the remaining minutes of class discussing movies, books, and stories about complex relationships. The conversation flowed naturally, almost intimately, as if they were friends rather than teacher and students. Devika forgot about cellular respiration diagrams, about maintaining professional distance.

When the class period ended, both students gathered their materials slowly, reluctant to leave.

"Thank you for the interesting discussion, Madam," Vishnu said. "It's refreshing to talk with someone who understands complex emotions."

"Yes," Pathan agreed. "We look forward to our next session."

After they left, Devika remained in the empty laboratory, staring at the abandoned lesson on the whiteboard. She'd planned to teach cellular respiration but had instead engaged in intimate conversations about romance and relationships.

More troubling was how natural it had felt, how their attention had warmed something cold inside her. For the first time in months, she'd felt genuinely appreciated, genuinely seen.

As she gathered her materials, Devika wondered if this was what Saradha had meant about embracing rather than fighting. The conversation had given her a sense of control, of choice in how the interaction unfolded.

But deep down, she knew she'd crossed a line—one that would be difficult to redraw.

[prady12191]

The classroom emptied, leaving Devika alone with the abandoned diagrams on the whiteboard. She gathered her materials slowly, her mind replaying the morning's conversation with Vishnu and Pathan. Their compliments still echoed—beautiful, intelligent, understanding—words Rajeevan hadn't used in months.

She walked toward the staff room, intending to collect her bag, but paused mid-corridor. Saradha's voice whispered through her memory: "You're beautiful, Devika. These men—all ages, all types—they're dying for you. Your husband ignores what they desperately want."

Devika's hand tightened on her bag strap. The bus incident flashed through her mind—the old man's desperate, hungry touch, his trembling fingers on her waist, his hoarse whisper against her ear. She'd felt violated then, terrified. But now, remembering Saradha's words, a different interpretation surfaced: He wanted me so badly he couldn't control himself.

Her feet carried her to the parking area where her scooter waited. She inserted the key, ready to return to her empty apartment. But something made her pause.

How much did that old man want me? The thought materialized unbidden. Enough to risk everything on a crowded bus. Enough to lose control completely.

Devika pulled the key from the ignition and walked back toward the college gates. Her heart hammered as she approached the bus stop, the same one where she'd waited that fateful day. The afternoon sun beat down on the concrete, and familiar sounds filled the air—hawkers calling out, autorickshaws honking, the distant rumble of approaching buses.

Devika's inner voice: What am I doing? This is madness. I should go home.

But she stayed, her pallu clutched tight against the breeze, her eyes scanning each approaching bus. The first two passed—wrong routes. The third slowed, and Devika recognized it immediately. The same battered exterior, the same cramped interior packed with laborers and daily-wage workers.

She boarded, dropping coins into the conductor's hand without meeting his eyes. The bus interior smelled of sweat, beedi smoke, and cheap cologne—the scent of men who worked with their hands, who lived in cramped quarters, who never touched women like her.

Devika moved toward the middle section, gripping the overhead bar. The bus lurched forward, and bodies pressed close on all sides. She told herself she wouldn't see him, that he probably took this route only occasionally.

Devika's inner voice: He won't be here. I can just ride to the next stop and get off. This was foolish—

Pressure bloomed against her back. Not the accidental jostle of crowded transit, but deliberate presence. Devika's breath caught. She turned her head slightly and met familiar eyes—the same old man from before, his weathered face creasing into a slow, knowing smile.

Old man: "Back again, madam? Couldn't stay away?"

Devika arranged her face into mock anger, her eyebrows drawing together even as her pulse quickened.

Devika: "Don't flatter yourself. This is my route bus."

Old man: "Is it now?" His smile widened. "Strange how you never took it after that day. Until today."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shifted closer, eliminating the small gap between them. The crowd surged as more passengers boarded, pressing everyone tighter together.

Devika: "Stay back. The crowd isn't that bad."

Old man: "Can't, madam. Too many people behind me."

It was true—new passengers pushed from the rear, creating a solid wall of bodies. But Devika sensed his deliberate positioning, the way he angled his body to maximize contact with hers.

He leaned close to her ear, inhaling deeply.

Old man: "That smell... you just came from work, didn't you? Sweat mixed with perfume. Drives me mad, madam. Absolutely mad."

Devika's inner voice: Oh god, he didn't even touch me yet. Just my smell makes him crazy. Thank you, Saradha, for helping me understand men better.

His hand found hers on the overhead bar, his rough fingers covering her smooth ones. Devika's first instinct was to pull away, but she hesitated. She'd come here deliberately, hadn't she? Some part of her wanted this—wanted to feel desired again, wanted confirmation of her power.

She left her hand where it was.

The old man's breathing quickened. His other hand moved to her waist, testing, waiting for her to slap it away. When she didn't, his fingers spread wider, claiming the curve of her hip through her saree.

Something hard pressed against Devika's rear—unmistakable evidence of his arousal. Her eyes widened, heat flooding her cheeks. But she didn't move away.

Emboldened by her stillness, his hands traveled upward. His fingers found her armpit, still damp from the afternoon heat, and lingered there with possessive pressure. Then his touch glided across her ribcage, feeling each breath she took. Finally, both hands settled on her saree-dbangd hips, gripping them slowly, deliberately.

Devika: "What are you doing?"

Her voice came out breathless rather than angry. He heard the difference.

His fingers found the edge of her saree at her waist and began pulling it downward, inch by careful inch. Devika felt the fabric loosening, felt cool air touching skin that should remain covered. Her heart hammered as he peeled the saree away, exposing her smooth hips to his gaze—though the crowd blocked everyone else's view.

Devika's inner voice: Oh my god... he's so bold... he's really exposing my bare hips in public...

Old man: "Your silky hips, madam... perfect to hold."

His growl vibrated against her shoulder blade as his palms claimed her exposed flesh possessively. Devika felt his calloused hands drinking in her warmth, his breathing heavy and desperate.

Movement caught her eye—two young men watching from a few feet away, their eyes locked on the old man's hands on her bare skin. Panic spiked through her arousal.

Devika: "People are watching us."

Old man: "Let them watch. No one will do anything. This is Pune—these things happen on buses. Everyone knows. And everyone knows what happens if they interfere with men like me."

Devika absorbed this information, shocked. He's someone powerful in this area. Someone people fear.

His hands squeezed her hips gently, then pulled at the skin, testing its softness. Devika bit her lip to suppress a gasp.

Devika: "Shhh..."

Her palms moved to his hands, intending to push them away. But his grip proved too strong. She found herself simply holding his hands as they explored her, her fingers resting atop his as if she couldn't bear to let go.

He cupped her hips fully now, then let his hands wander forward to the softness of her belly. Her trembling hands followed his movement, maintaining contact as if magnetized.

Through the saree still covering her front, he pulled her backward into his body. Devika collided with his chest, feeling every inch of his hardness pressed against her rear. She tried to move forward, creating distance, but he pulled again. The saree tightened, the fabric straining.

Devika: "Please..."

But she didn't finish the plea. Didn't specify whether she wanted him to stop or continue.

His grip was iron. Her other hand joined the first, both palms now trying unsuccessfully to remove his hands from her body. But he was too strong, too determined. Devika's resistance melted into mere theater—a show for the watching passengers, perhaps for herself.

He closed the remaining gap between them completely, pressing his body flush against hers. Then he buried his face in her bare shoulder, inhaling deeply. The movement shifted her blouse slightly, and his eyes caught sight of her black bra strap.

Old man's inner voice: A conservative-looking Kerala woman in my hands. I can't believe my luck.

He pressed his face harder against her shoulder, his nose and mouth touching her skin directly. The scent of her sweat mixed with jasmine filled his senses.

Old man: "Beautiful women like you shouldn't wear sarees so high, hiding your assets. Poor people like us never get to touch beautiful women. We can only watch from far away. Women like you should satisfy us by showing what god gave you. Make poor men like us happy."

As he spoke, his hands began searching for her saree tuck at her waist. Devika caught hold of both his hands firmly.

Devika: "What are you doing now?"

Old man: "Don't fear, madam. Just lowering your pallu a little. Just to see your navel."

Devika: "No! You can't—"

But he didn't listen. His fingers found the tucked edge of her saree and pulled it deliberately downward. The fabric loosened, sliding lower on her hips, exposing several more inches of her midriff. Her navel appeared, a small indentation in smooth skin.

His hands covered the newly exposed area, hiding it from view behind the saree's outer layer. To observers, it looked innocent—just a man steadying a woman on a crowded bus. But underneath, his finger found her navel, circling it slowly.

A shiver passed through Devika's entire body. His touch on her navel felt electric, intimate in a way she'd never experienced. She wondered at his daring, at her own acceptance.

Old man's inner voice: Oh my god... so round... so sexy in my hands...

He was the first man besides Rajeevan to ever touch her navel. The realization sent conflicting waves of guilt and excitement through her.

His hardness crushed against her rear, the pressure increasing as he ground subtly against her. Devika could feel every ridge, every pulse through their layers of clothing.

Old man: "Who are you? Your smell, your hips, your navel, the way you wrap your saree... you can't be from Pune."

Devika: "I'm... I'm from Kerala."

Old man: "Ah! Kerala woman! I knew it. You Kerala women are gems for low-class men like us. So proper-looking, so traditional. But underneath..."

He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he leaned close to her ear and licked the outer shell slowly, deliberately. Then his teeth caught her earlobe, nipping gently.

Devika: "You're going too far!"

Old man: "Adjust a little, madam. I need something from you. To remember you by."

Devika: "You're not my lover or husband. I can't share private things with you."

Old man: "I love your smell. I need something that carries it. Please, madam."

His fingers slipped beneath the loosened edge of her blouse, finding her thin black bra strap. He held it firmly, giving a gentle tug that tightened her bra, lifting her breasts slightly.

Devika understood his implication immediately. He wanted her bra. Her undergarment. The most intimate item of clothing she wore.

Devika's inner voice: What do I do? I can't give him that!

She fumbled in her purse with shaking hands and pulled out her handkerchief—the one she'd used to wipe her face and neck throughout the day.

Devika: "Here. Take this. It's... it's been with me all day. It has my scent."

The old man accepted it gratefully, bringing it immediately to his nose. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in pleasure. But then he looked at her with cunning.

Old man: "It needs more."

Before she could ask what he meant, he lifted her arm and pressed the handkerchief into the damp warmth of her armpit. The intimate gesture shocked her into stillness. He held it there for several seconds, soaking the fabric with her sweat, then withdrew it and inhaled again.

Old man: "Now it's perfect. More sexy. More you."

The bus began slowing—approaching a stop. Devika realized this was her chance to escape. She gave him a firm push, arranging her face into mock annoyance even as her body trembled with confused arousal.

Devika: "Enough! This is my stop."

She moved toward the door, adjusting her saree hastily to cover her exposed midriff. As she stepped down to the pavement, she glanced back one final time. The old man stood at the window, her handkerchief pressed to his nose, his eyes locked on her with unmistakable hunger.

The bus pulled away, and Devika stood alone on the roadside, her heart racing, her body still tingling from his touches. What had she done? Why had she allowed it? More troubling—why had she sought it out?

Saradha's voice echoed again: "Embrace it, Devika. Use their desire. Control it rather than being controlled by it."

But was this control? Standing on a street corner with her midriff still tingling from a stranger's touch, her handkerchief—intimate with her scent—now in his possession?

Devika wrapped her arms around herself and began walking, unsure whether she felt degraded or strangely empowered. One thing was certain: the proper Kerala wife was disappearing piece by piece, replaced by someone she barely recognized.

Someone who boarded crowded buses deliberately.

Someone who allowed strange men to expose her hips.

Someone who gave away her sweat-soaked handkerchief as a trophy.

The afternoon sun beat down as Devika made her way home, her mind churning with questions she wasn't ready to answer.

[prady12191]

The next morning brought no relief to Devika's tormented mind. She dressed mechanically, her hands trembling as she dbangd her saree.

At the college, Devika walked through the corridors with her head down, avoiding eye contact. Every whispered conversation seemed to be about her, every glance felt accusatory. The weight of her secret pressed against her chest like a physical burden.

In the practical laboratory, she noticed Vishnu's absence immediately. Only Pathan sat at the corner bench, his usual sneer replaced by something more calculating. He watched her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

"Vishnu won't be coming for a few days," Pathan announced, his voice carrying across the empty lab. "Family emergency."

Devika nodded curtly, keeping her distance as she prepared the day's specimens. Without Vishnu's presence, the dynamic felt different—more dangerous somehow. Pathan's gaze followed her every movement, lingering on the curve of her waist when she bent to retrieve materials from the lower shelves.

"Ma'am, I need help with this slide preparation," Pathan called out, his tone deceptively respectful.

Devika approached reluctantly, maintaining professional distance as she demonstrated the proper technique. She could feel his breath on her neck, smell the tobacco on his clothes. When her dupatta slipped slightly, exposing more of her neckline, she saw his eyes darken with hunger.

"Like this?" he asked, deliberately brushing his fingers against hers as he adjusted the microscope.

"Yes, that's correct," she managed, stepping back quickly.

Meanwhile, in the staff room, Pathan's phone buzzed with an urgent message. He excused himself from the lab, leaving Devika alone with her mounting anxiety.

Saradha was grading papers when her phone rang. The display showed Pathan's number, and her stomach dropped. She glanced around the empty staff room before answering.

"What do you want now?" she whispered harshly.

"Saradha ma'am, I need a small favor," Pathan's voice was smooth, almost conversational.

"I've done enough. I convinced her to change her dressing, I've been feeding her the wrong advice. What more do you want?"

"Today is special. Vishnu is away, and I want some... quality time with our beautiful professor."

Saradha's blood chilled. "What are you talking about?"

"During practical class today, I want you to lock the laboratory. Make it look like everyone has left. Leave me and Devika alone inside."

"Are you insane?" Saradha's voice rose, then she quickly lowered it. "I won't be part of... whatever you're planning."

"Saradha ma'am," Pathan's tone turned menacing. "Do you remember our little video collection? The one showing your... extracurricular activities with that visiting professor last year?"

Saradha's grip tightened on the phone. "You promised you wouldn't use that."

"I promised I wouldn't share it if you cooperated. This is cooperation."

"I won't help you assault her!" Saradha's voice cracked with desperation.

"Who said anything about assault?" Pathan laughed softly. "I just want to talk to her. Alone. Without interruptions. You know how shy she is in front of others."

"This is wrong, Pathan. She's a married woman, a respected professor—"

"She's a lonely woman whose husband is cheating on her in Dubai. She needs... comfort. I'm just offering to be a friend."

Saradha closed her eyes, remembering her own compromising position. Her affair had been brief but devastating—a moment of weakness that this boy had somehow captured on video. If it ever surfaced, her marriage, her career, everything would crumble.

"I can't do this," she whispered.

"Then explain to your husband why you were in Professor Mehta's hotel room last March. Explain to the college board why their senior faculty member was compromising the institution's reputation."

Saradha felt tears prick her eyes. "Please, don't make me do this."

"All you have to do is lock the lab door and walk away. Simple. I won't hurt her, I promise. I just want to... talk."

"What if someone comes looking?"

"Tell them the lab is closed for cleaning. Tell them there was a chemical spill. You're creative, Saradha ma'am. You'll think of something."

Saradha stared at the wall, her mind racing. Every option led to disaster—either her own exposure or becoming complicit in whatever Pathan had planned for Devika.

"What time?" she asked finally, her voice barely audible.

"End of practical class. Around 4 PM. Just lock the door from outside and leave. Come back after an hour."

"And then this is over? You won't ask for anything else?"

Pathan's laugh sent chills down her spine. "We'll see, ma'am. We'll see."

The line went dead, leaving Saradha staring at her phone in horror. She had become a pawn in this boy's twisted game, and now she was about to sacrifice Devika to save herself.

Back in the laboratory, Devika continued her preparations, unaware of the trap being set around her. The clock on the wall ticked steadily toward 4 PM, each minute bringing her closer to two different kinds of danger— and whatever Pathan had planned for their forced isolation.

As the afternoon wore on, more students filtered out of the laboratory. Pathan remained seated, pretending to study his slides while watching Devika clean and organize the equipment. His eyes never left her, cataloguing every gesture, every curve beneath her saree.

"Ma'am," he called out as she wiped down the last microscope. "Can you help me understand this tissue sample? I'm still confused."

Devika glanced at the clock—3:55 PM. Almost time for the session to end. Just a few more minutes, and she could escape to face her other problems.

"Of course," she replied, moving toward his bench, unaware that Saradha was already walking toward the laboratory door, keys in hand, her face pale with guilt and terror.

The trap was closing, and Devika had no idea that her day was about to take an even darker turn.

[prady12191]

The last student gathered his notebooks and headed toward the door, leaving only Devika and Pathan in the laboratory. The afternoon light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the empty workbenches.

Devika bent over her desk, organizing the day's materials into neat piles. The familiar routine of cleaning slides and storing equipment usually calmed her, but today an inexplicable tension knotted her shoulders. Something felt different about the silence—too complete, too final.

The soft click of the door closing echoed through the room.

Pathan looked up from his microscope, feigning surprise. "Did someone just lock us in?"

Devika's head snapped toward the door. The corridor beyond the frosted glass panels appeared empty, no shadows moving past. She walked to the heavy wooden door and pressed her ear against it.

Nothing.

"Hello?" she called out, turning the handle. It wouldn't budge. "Is anyone there?"

Pathan joined her, placing his hand on the door frame just inches from her shoulder. "Let me try."

He rattled the handle more forcefully, then banged on the door with his fist. "Hey! Someone's still inside!"

The sound echoed hollowly through the corridor beyond. No footsteps. No voices. Only the hum of the ventilation system and the distant rumble of traffic from the street.

"This is strange," Devika murmured, stepping back from the door. "Saradha ma'am always checks before locking up."

"Maybe she got distracted," Pathan suggested, pulling out his phone. "I'll call Vishnu. He might still be in the building."

Devika watched as he dialed, pressing the phone to his ear. After a moment, he frowned and tried again.

"Phone's switched off," he said, slipping the device back into his pocket. "Probably dead battery. You know how careless he is."

Devika patted her pockets, then checked her bag. Empty. "I left my phone in the staff room this morning. I completely forgot."

"Don't worry, ma'am. Someone will come by soon. The cleaning staff usually starts their rounds around five."

The clock on the wall read 4:15 PM. Forty-five minutes felt like an eternity trapped in this windowless room with Pathan's intense gaze following her every movement.

"We might as well sit down," Pathan said, settling onto one of the lab stools. "No point standing by the door like prisoners."

Devika remained near the exit, her arms crossed. "I'm sure Saradha ma'am will realize her mistake soon."

"She's probably already gone home. Thursday evenings she always leaves early for her daughter's music class."

The casual familiarity in his voice surprised her. How did he know so much about Saradha's schedule?

"Let's not waste time worrying," Pathan continued, his tone shifting to something more conversational. "I saw this amazing movie yesterday. You'd probably like it—very romantic, beautifully shot."

Devika glanced at him uncertainly. The change in topic felt forced, but talking was better than standing in anxious silence.

"What was it about?"

"Love story between a college professor and a student. But not inappropriate," he added quickly. "She was his age, just starting her teaching career. Very tasteful, very emotional."

Despite herself, Devika found her curiosity piqued. "Which language?"

"Hindi, but with English subtitles. The lead actress reminded me of you, actually. Same graceful way of moving, same expressive eyes."

Heat crept up Devika's neck. "I'm sure she was much more beautiful."

"No, truly. There was this one scene..." Pathan pulled out his phone again. "Actually, I downloaded a clip. The chemistry between them was incredible. Want to see?"

Devika hesitated. Watching movie clips with a student felt inappropriate, but the alternative was forty minutes of awkward silence.

"Just a short scene," Pathan said, already pulling up the video. "The cinematography is stunning."

He held the phone between them, and Devika found herself stepping closer to see the small screen. The clip began with soft music, showing a couple in an intimate embrace. The camera work was indeed beautiful—golden lighting, soft focus, everything bathed in warm tones.

Then the couple's lips met.

The kiss unfolded slowly, tenderly, with none of the rushed passion of typical commercial films. It felt real, authentic. The way the man's hand cradled the woman's face, the way she leaned into him with complete trust—it spoke of deep emotional connection rather than mere physical attraction.

Devika's breath caught. The tenderness on screen reminded her of everything missing from her own marriage. When was the last time Rajeevan had looked at her with such reverence? When had he last touched her as though she were precious rather than merely convenient?

The scene continued, the camera capturing every subtle expression, every gentle caress. The couple moved together like dancers, their connection electric yet tender.

Warmth pooled in Devika's chest, spreading downward. Her pulse quickened despite her efforts to remain detached. The intimacy on screen felt more real than anything she'd experienced in years.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Pathan's voice came from very close beside her.

Devika nodded, unable to look away from the screen. The couple's passion built gradually, naturally, without the crude explicitness of typical films. This felt like witnessing genuine love rather than performance.

Her lips parted slightly as she watched, unconsciously mirroring the actress's expression. The laboratory around them seemed to fade, leaving only the golden world of the film and the heat building within her own chest.

[prady12191]

The video ended, leaving the laboratory in sudden silence. Devika stepped back from the phone, clearing her throat.

"That was... beautifully filmed," she said, attempting to return to safer ground. "The direction was quite artistic."

Pathan pocketed his phone, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Madam, how can people who aren't husband and wife kiss like that? So naturally, so... passionately?"

Devika's jaw tightened. "It's called acting, Pathan. Professional actors are trained to portray emotions convincingly."

"But madam," he pressed, shifting closer on his stool, "don't you ever feel like kissing when you watch romantic scenes in movies?"

"That's an inappropriate question. You shouldn't ask your teacher such things."

Pathan's expression grew more intent. "Please, madam. I'm just curious about human nature."

Devika looked toward the locked door, wishing desperately for an escape. The walls seemed to press closer with each passing moment.

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes I do feel... moved by romantic scenes. But my husband wouldn't appreciate such thoughts. It's my fate that I won't experience kisses like that."

"What do you mean, madam?"

Heat flooded Devika's cheeks. "My husband only gives... pecks. Quick, practical kisses. Nothing like what we just watched."

Pathan's face darkened. "What a bastard. How can any man—"

"Don't you dare!" Devika's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't speak about my husband that way!"

"Sorry, madam. Sorry." He raised his hands apologetically. "I got carried away hearing this. It's just... your lips are so much sexier than that actress. How can any man ignore such lips without giving you proper mouth kisses?"

Devika stared at him, shock rendering her speechless.

"If I were your husband," Pathan continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "I could kiss and suck your lips for thirty minutes without leaving them."

"Pathan!" The angry look she shot him could have melted steel.

"Madam, I would love to give you mouth kisses right here in the corner of this classroom."

"What did you just say?"

"Sorry, madam. Sorry again. I'm getting carried away—"

"Stop talking like this immediately!"

But Pathan seemed unable to halt the words spilling from his lips. "Madam, have you ever kissed anyone other than your husband?"

"No!" Devika's voice rose. "I would never engage in such activities!"

Pathan slid off his stool and moved closer, the distance between them shrinking to mere inches. "Madam, can I touch your lips?"

Devika's breath caught in her throat. The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she didn't want to examine. She opened her mouth to refuse, to establish boundaries, to remind him of their roles—but no words emerged.

Slowly, deliberately, Pathan raised his hand. His index finger hovered near her mouth, waiting.

Still, Devika said nothing.

His finger made contact with her lower lip, tracing its curve with feather-light pressure. "Such sexy lips," he murmured.

The touch sent electricity shooting through her entire body. Her lips parted involuntarily under his gentle exploration.

"Pathan," she whispered, "I'm your teacher."

"Yes, madam. That's exactly why I'm staying within limits."

"Pathan..." His name escaped as barely a breath.

His finger continued its slow journey, outlining the shape of her mouth. "Madam, seeing your lips like this... I'm getting into a sexual mood."

The raw honesty in his confession shattered whatever composure she had left. "Pathan, don't talk like that."

But even as she protested, her body betrayed her. Her lips remained parted, accepting his touch. Her breathing had grown shallow, uneven. The heat building in her core contradicted every word of resistance.

The locked door, the empty corridor, the afternoon light slanting through the windows—everything conspired to create this moment of impossible intimacy. Devika stood frozen between desire and duty, between the woman she was supposed to be and the woman she was discovering herself to become.

[prady12191]

The air in the laboratory grew thick with tension as Pathan's finger continued its exploration of her lips. His breathing had become labored, and something predatory flickered in his eyes.

"Madam," he said, his voice rough with desire, "can I kiss those sexy lips?"

The words hit Devika like a physical blow. Her student—her own student—was asking to kiss her. The inappropriateness of it crashed over her in waves.

"Pathan!" she gasped, finally finding her voice. "You're my student! How can you even ask such a thing?"

But before she could step away, before she could establish the distance that propriety demanded, Pathan moved. Quick as a striking snake, he pressed forward and planted a tight peck on her lips.

The contact lasted only a second, but in that brief moment, he felt the incredible softness of her mouth against his. Her lips were even more perfect than he had imagined—plush and warm and everything he had fantasized about during those long hours watching her in class.

Shock paralyzed Devika for a heartbeat. Then her hand moved on its own, delivering a light slap across his cheek.

"I'm your teacher!" she cried, her voice shaking with outrage and something else she couldn't name.

"Sorry, madam. Sorry," Pathan said, touching his cheek where her palm had connected. "I couldn't control myself. Your lips... they're just too beautiful."

Devika stood frozen, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She should have moved away. She should have demanded he unlock the door immediately. She should have reported this to the authorities.

Instead, she remained exactly where she was.

"Madam," Pathan continued, emboldened by her lack of movement, "I can show you what you've been missing from your husband."

He took a step forward. Devika instinctively moved backward, but the laboratory bench caught her retreat. The hard edge pressed against her lower back, trapping her between the cold surface and Pathan's advancing form.

His hands rose to her shoulders, fingers spreading across the delicate fabric of her blouse.

"Pathan, take your hands off me," she whispered, but the command lacked conviction.

"Madam," he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, "I know your lips need a man to smooch them properly. They're crying out for real attention."

"No," Devika protested weakly. "Don't do anything. This is wrong."

But Pathan was beyond listening to reason. He closed the remaining gap between them, his body heat radiating against her trapped form. Devika's breathing became erratic, her pulse hammering against her throat.

"Madam," he breathed, his face inches from hers, "your lips are so dry without a man's saliva. Let me wet them for you."

Devika opened her mouth to protest, to establish boundaries one final time, but Pathan seized the moment. He locked his lips against hers, claiming her mouth with desperate hunger.

Devika's hands flew up to push against his chest, but he was stronger than she had anticipated. His body pressed her firmly against the bench, his kiss demanding and insistent.

The taste of him flooded her senses—the bitter tang of tobacco, the sharp bite of paan, the underlying masculine heat that was uniquely his. It was nothing like Rajeevan's perfunctory pecks, nothing like the sanitized romance of movies. This was raw and earthy and overwhelming.

Slowly, against every principle she held dear, Devika's resistance began to crumble. Her eyes fluttered closed. Her hands, which had been pushing against him, gradually stilled.

When Pathan finally pulled back, both of them were breathing hard. Devika's lips glistened with his saliva, swollen and wet from his attention.

She could taste him on her tongue—the unpleasant residue of his habits mixing with something else, something that made her stomach flutter in ways she didn't want to acknowledge.

"Your breath," she whispered, wrinkling her nose at the lingering flavors of tobacco and paan. "It's so..."

But Pathan was lost in his own discovery. "Madam," he groaned, touching his own lips as if to preserve the sensation, "your saliva tastes like honey. So sweet, so perfect."

Devika stared at him, her mind reeling from what had just occurred. Something had awakened inside her—something dangerous and forbidden that she had kept buried for far too long. The feeling frightened and thrilled her in equal measure.

[Ananthukutty]

Superb. Now she has tasted the forbidden and will be longing for more if she get to see the circumcized cock

[prady12191]

Devika: "Pathan, I'll complain to Seenu sir about this. This is completely inappropriate!"

But her warning fell on deaf ears. Pathan's eyes had glazed over with desire, and he seemed beyond rational thought. Without hesitation, he locked his lips against hers once more, his mouth claiming hers with renewed desperation.

His moans vibrated between their joined mouths as he lost himself in the sensation.

"Sexy lips, madam," he gasped against her mouth between kisses. "Thank you for allowing me to kiss you."

Devika: "I didn't allow anything. You forced your lips on mine."

Her words came out muffled, her lips still pressed against his as she spoke. The vibration of her voice against his mouth only seemed to inflame him further.

Pathan's body responded to the intimacy, and Devika could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against her thighs through the fabric of their clothes. The realization sent a shock through her system.

"Your lips are so soft, madam," he murmured, his breathing ragged. "I could kiss them all day."

Devika: "Please, Pathan... I'm your teacher."

Her protest came out as more of a moan than the firm rebuke she had intended. Her resolve was cracking under the intensity of sensations she hadn't experienced in months.

His hands found her hips, fingers spreading across the exposed skin at her waist where her saree had shifted. The touch of his rough palms against her bare flesh made her shiver. He gripped her thighs firmly, his intention clear as he began to lift her.

Devika understood what he wanted. Against every rational thought screaming in her mind, she gave a small jump, coordinating with his movement as he lifted her onto the laboratory bench. The cold surface pressed against her legs as she settled onto the slab.

Pathan moved between her legs, wrapping them around his waist. The new position brought them into intimate contact, her body's warmth enveloping him as he pressed closer.

"Your hips are incredible, madam," he groaned, his hands exploring the curves he had admired from afar for so long.

Once again, he captured her lips, but this time his approach was different. His tongue traced the outline of her mouth, tasting the sweetness he had discovered. Slowly, deliberately, he slipped his tongue past her lips and into the warm cavern of her mouth.

Devika felt the foreign invasion, the wet slide of his tongue against hers. When he found her tongue and began to explore it with his own, something inside her surrendered completely. She found herself responding, her own tongue meeting his in an intimate dance.

Their tongues intertwined, exploring and tasting each other with growing hunger. When she pushed her own tongue into his mouth, returning his exploration, Pathan's grip on her hips tightened.

He pulled back slightly, their tongues separating, and pressed her now-glistening lips with his own. Her mouth was slippery with their mingled saliva, and he rubbed his lips against hers, savoring the slick sensation.

"Hmm, hmm," he moaned against her mouth, the sound vibrating between them.

Then came a series of quick pecks—kiss after kiss landing on her swollen lips with audible sounds that echoed in the quiet laboratory. Each small kiss was accompanied by the soft sound of their lips meeting and parting.

Devika sat on the bench, her legs wrapped around her student, completely lost in sensations she had forgotten existed. The line between teacher and student, between propriety and desire, had blurred beyond recognition.

[prady12191]

Pathan's eyes burned with raw desire as he gazed at her flushed face, her lips still glistening from their kiss.

Pathan: "You are so sexy, madam. I feel like marrying you and keeping you as my wife. I want to kiss you daily like this."

His words hung in the air like a forbidden confession. The audacity of his statement—a student speaking of marriage to his teacher—should have horrified her completely.

Pathan: "In college, whenever I get a chance, I want to kiss you just like this."

Devika: "Pathan, don't talk like this. I am your teacher!"

Her voice cracked with emotion, somewhere between outrage and something she couldn't name. The moan that escaped with her words betrayed the conflict raging inside her.

Pathan: "Teacher-ah kiss pannum pothu tan semma kick-ah iruku!"

The crude satisfaction in his voice sent shivers through her. Before she could process his words fully, he captured her lips again with renewed hunger. Their mouths met with audible sounds—wet, intimate noises that echoed through the silent laboratory.

Kiss after kiss, he claimed her mouth with desperate intensity. The smacking sounds of their lips meeting and parting filled the room, each one a testament to the line they had crossed.

Devika's hands found his chest, but instead of pushing him away, her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt. Her body betrayed every principle she held dear, responding to his touch with shameful eagerness.

When she finally broke the kiss, her palm connected with his cheek in another sharp slap. The sound cracked through the air like a whip.

Devika: "How dare you!"

Pathan: "Madam, I can risk anything to kiss those sexy lips of yours."

His honesty was brutal and intoxicating. He touched his reddened cheek where she had struck him, but his eyes never left her mouth.

Devika: "What do you think you're doing? This is completely wrong!"

Her voice rose in genuine anger now, the gravity of their situation crashing over her like cold water.

Pathan: "I'm not doing anything wrong, madam. Just appreciating your beauty."

Devika: "I'm going to complain about this behavior to the authorities!"

Panic flickered across Pathan's features. The reality of consequences suddenly penetrated his desire-clouded mind.

Pathan: "Sorry, madam. Please don't complain. Please don't spoil my studies."

His voice took on a pleading quality that made something twist in Devika's chest.

Devika: "You're not here for studying anyway. Why should I bother about your career?"

Pathan: "Sorry, madam. Really sorry. Please give me one chance."

Devika studied his face, seeing genuine fear beneath the lingering desire. Despite everything that had happened, guilt crept into her heart. She had allowed this to happen. She had participated.

Devika: "This is your last chance. This should never, ever happen again."

Relief flooded his features as he nodded eagerly.

Pathan: "Fine, madam. I promise."

Devika: "And you must never tell anyone what happened here. Not a single soul."

Pathan: "Okay, madam. I won't tell anyone."

Silence settled between them like a heavy curtain. Neither could meet the other's eyes. Devika adjusted her saree with trembling hands, trying to restore some semblance of propriety to her appearance.

The weight of what they had done pressed down on both of them. She remained perched on the laboratory bench, her legs still tingling from where his hands had gripped her thighs. He stood before her, close enough that she could still smell the tobacco and paan on his breath.

The sound of keys jingling outside the door made them both freeze. Footsteps approached, followed by the distinct sound of a lock turning.

Relief washed over Devika as the door swung open to reveal the college peon, looking surprised to find them there.

Peon: "Sir, madam, why are you both locked inside?"

Devika: "The door got stuck. We couldn't get out."

She slipped down from the bench, her legs unsteady beneath her. The peon nodded sympathetically and held the door open for them.

As they walked out of the laboratory, Devika's mind churned with conflicting emotions. The taste of Pathan still lingered on her lips—that rough, earthy flavor of tobacco and desire that was so different from anything she had experienced.

Her body felt awakened in ways that frightened her. The young man's pan-stained lips had ignited something she thought had died long ago.

Behind her, Pathan could hardly believe what had transpired. He had kissed Devika—his dream teacher, the woman he had fantasized about since her first day at college. Her soft lips, her sweet taste, the way she had eventually responded to his touch—it all felt like an impossible dream made real.

The memory of her tongue meeting his, the sound of her moans, the warmth of her body pressed against him—these sensations would fuel his fantasies for months to come.

They walked down the corridor in loaded silence, both carrying the weight of their shared secret.

[prady12191]

The next morning, Devika stood before her wardrobe mirror, arranging her hair with mechanical precision. Her reflection stared back with hollow eyes that betrayed her sleepless night. The memory of yesterday's transgression with Pathan burned through her thoughts—his tobacco-laced kisses, her own shameful response, the weight of his body against hers. Each recollection sent waves of conflicting emotions through her: disgust, guilt, and beneath it all, a disturbing undercurrent of arousal that she couldn't entirely suppress.

She had spent hours scrubbing her lips, as if she could wash away the evidence of what had happened. Yet the memory remained imprinted on her skin, a phantom sensation that wouldn't fade.

Devika chose her attire carefully—a conservative saree in deep maroon with a high-necked blouse. The pallu was dbangd firmly across her chest and pinned securely at her shoulder, an armor against predatory eyes. Her movements were deliberate as she applied a darker shade of lipstick than usual, somehow hoping it might erase the memory of Pathan's mouth against hers.

The college corridors seemed to stretch endlessly as she made her way to class. Each step required conscious effort. She felt exposed, as if her transgression were visible to everyone she passed. Surely they could see it written across her face—the teacher who had kissed her student.

As she entered the classroom, her eyes automatically sought Pathan's usual seat, finding it empty. A small measure of relief washed over her. At least she wouldn't have to face him immediately.

She had just settled her notes on the desk when a familiar voice made her stomach clench.

"Good morning, madam."

Vishnu stood at the classroom door, his thin frame leaning against the doorjamb with studied casualness. Unlike his friend's brash demeanor, Vishnu's predatory nature was disguised beneath a veneer of politeness.

"Good morning," Devika replied, her voice carefully neutral as she busied herself arranging papers that needed no arrangement.

Vishnu approached her desk, glancing around the empty classroom. They were alone—the first students wouldn't arrive for another fifteen minutes. His eyes traveled over her face, lingering on her lips with uncomfortable intensity.

"Pathan told me about yesterday," he said, his voice low and intimate. "About the lab."

Devika's heart hammered against her ribcage. The pen in her hand froze mid-motion.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice tighter than she intended.

Vishnu's lips curved into a knowing smile. "He said you kissed him back. That your lips taste sweet, like honey."

Blood drained from Devika's face. Pathan had promised. He had sworn not to tell anyone.

"That's a disgusting lie," she hissed, finding her voice at last. "Your friend tried to force himself on me. I should report him to the principal."

"But you won't," Vishnu replied, his voice soft with certainty. "Because something happened in that lab. Something you're ashamed of."

Devika's fingers gripped the edge of her desk until her knuckles whitened. "Get out. Class doesn't start for fifteen minutes."

Instead of leaving, Vishnu stepped closer. His eyes, unlike Pathan's lustful stare, held something more calculated—a cold assessment that made her skin crawl.

"It's not fair," he said quietly. "Pathan always gets what he wants first."

The implication in his words sent a chill through her body.

"I'm warning you, Vishnu. Step back immediately."

"I just want what he got," Vishnu continued as if she hadn't spoken. "One kiss. That's all I'm asking for."

Devika stared at him, incredulous. "Have you lost your mind? I am your professor!"

"And you were Pathan's professor too," he countered. "That didn't stop you yesterday."

Anger flared through her veins, momentarily eclipsing her fear. "Get out! Now!"

Vishnu didn't move. "I've always been more interested in you than Pathan was. He just wanted to conquer you. I actually admire you."

His twisted logic made her stomach turn. Yet beneath her revulsion, she felt an unwelcome flicker of curiosity. Where Pathan had been all brute force and unchecked desire, Vishnu's approach was methodical, almost surgical in its precision.

"I won't kiss you," she said firmly. "What happened yesterday was a mistake that will never be repeated."

Vishnu studied her face, his gaze lingering on the high collar of her blouse, the carefully pinned pallu.

"Then show me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Show you what?" Devika demanded, though something in her already knew the answer.

"If you won't kiss me, at least let me see what's beneath that pallu. Just once."

The audacity of his request left her speechless. Her hand instinctively moved to the fabric covering her chest, clutching it tighter.

"Get out before I call security," she threatened.

"We both know you won't," Vishnu replied with disturbing confidence. "Just like you won't report Pathan."

Devika felt trapped in a nightmare that was spiraling beyond her control.

"What exactly are you asking me to do?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Remove your pallu," Vishnu said, his eyes gleaming. "Let me see your figure without it."

"You're asking a professor to expose herself to a student?" Disbelief colored her tone. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"I'm not asking you to undress," Vishnu clarified, his calm demeanor making the request seem almost reasonable. "Just show me what's beneath your pallu. The curves Pathan got to feel yesterday."

Devika felt a surge of anger mixed with a confusing undercurrent of something else—perhaps the dangerous thrill of being desired so intensely, even if it was wrong.

"This is completely inappropriate," she said, though her voice lacked the conviction it should have carried.

"Meet me somewhere private," Vishnu pressed. "The staff room toilet, perhaps. Five minutes, that's all I ask."

"The toilet?" Devika couldn't keep the shock from her voice. "You expect me to stand in a bathroom with you without my pallu?"

"It's private. No one will know." His eyes never left hers. "Unless you prefer my home? I live alone in a flat near the market."

"Absolutely not," she replied immediately.

"Then the toilet. During lunch break."

Devika shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation."

"Five minutes," Vishnu repeated. "No touching—I promise. I just want to see."

The pragmatic part of her brain screamed at her to end this conversation immediately, to report both students for sexual harassment. Yet some deeper, more primitive part hesitated. The memory of yesterday's forbidden pleasure flickered through her mind—the way her body had responded, the way she had felt alive for the first time in months.

"Why should I agree to any of this?" she asked.

"Because you're curious," Vishnu replied simply. "Because your husband ignores you, and you deserve to be seen."

His words struck a nerve, piercing through her defenses with uncanny accuracy.

"If I agree—and I'm not saying I will—where exactly would this... this viewing take place?" she asked, unable to believe the words coming from her own mouth.

"The staff toilet on the third floor. No one uses it during lunch hour."

Devika swallowed hard, her throat dry. "And you promise not to touch me?"

"I promise," Vishnu said, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Just five minutes of looking. That's all."

The first students began filtering into the classroom, ending their conversation. Vishnu backed away, his eyes holding hers for one final moment.

"Lunch break," he whispered before turning to take his seat.

Throughout the morning lecture, Devika's mind raced. Each time she glanced up from her notes, she found Vishnu watching her, his gaze steady and knowing. Unlike Pathan's obvious lust, Vishnu's interest felt more insidious, more dangerous.

As the lunch bell rang and students filed out, Devika remained at her desk, paralyzed by indecision. The sensible course was clear—avoid the meeting, report both students, protect her career and dignity. Yet she found herself gathering her papers with trembling hands, her feet carrying her toward the third floor.

What was happening to her? Was she really considering this madness? She told herself she was going to confront him, to firmly end this inappropriate behavior once and for all. But deep down, she recognized the lie in her own thoughts.

As she climbed the stairs to the third floor, Devika felt as though she were watching herself from a distance—a woman she no longer recognized, walking steadily toward a line she had promised herself never to cross again.

[prady12191]

The afternoon stretched on like an elastic band pulled to its limit. Devika sat at her desk in the staff room, pretending to grade papers while her mind remained fixated on the promised meeting with Vishnu. The clock on the wall seemed to move with excruciating slowness, each tick echoing her hammering heartbeat.

One by one, her colleagues gathered their belongings and departed. Professor Malhotra with his perpetual cough. Dr. Joshi with her jangling bangles. Each exit left the room emptier, the air heavier with possibility and danger.

Finally, only Saradha remained, organizing a stack of exams with meticulous precision. She glanced up at Devika with curious eyes.

"You're staying late today?" Saradha asked, her tone casual but her gaze probing.

"Yes," Devika replied, not meeting her eyes. "I have some unfinished work."

Saradha paused, her fingers tapping against the desk. "Everything alright, Devika? You seem... distracted."

"Just tired," Devika said, forcing a smile. "And these cell biology papers won't grade themselves."

Saradha nodded, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. After a moment's hesitation, she gathered her purse and headed toward the door.

"Don't stay too late," she called over her shoulder. "The peons lock up at six."

As the door closed behind Saradha, Devika released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The emptiness of the staff room suddenly felt oppressive, the silence broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock.

The minutes crawled by. Devika's palms grew damp with sweat as she waited, her stomach knotted with anxiety. What was she doing? This madness had to stop. She should leave now, before—

The door opened. Devika's heart leaped to her throat.

A peon entered, keys jangling at his belt. He seemed surprised to find her still there.

"Madam, I am locking staff toilet now," he announced. "College closing time."

"That's fine," Devika managed, relief and disappointment warring within her. Perhaps this was a sign. The universe intervening to save her from her own reckless impulses.

The peon nodded and left. Devika began gathering her papers, suddenly eager to escape the building and the temptation it represented.

She was halfway to the door when it opened again. Vishnu stood in the doorway, his lean frame silhouetted against the corridor light.

"You're still here," he said, his voice low with satisfaction.

Devika froze, clutching her papers to her chest like armor. "The toilet is locked. You should go home."

Vishnu stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "I saw Pathan leave. He asked why I was staying. Told him I had an assignment to finish."

He moved closer, his eyes never leaving her face. "You waited for me."

"I was working," Devika insisted, but the lie sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"The toilet is locked," Vishnu said, repeating her words. His gaze drifted to the corner of the ceiling where a small black dome indicated the presence of a security camera. "And we can't stay here. Too risky."

Devika followed his gaze to the camera. "Then this was all for nothing," she said, unable to hide the note of relief in her voice. "I should go."

"Come to my place," Vishnu suggested, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It's not far."

"Absolutely not," Devika replied firmly. The thought of entering a student's home crossed a line even in this twisted new reality she was navigating. "This was a mistake. Forget it ever happened."

Disappointment flashed across Vishnu's features. He stood silent for a moment, thinking. Then, a slow smile spread across his lips.

"The boys' toilet," he said quietly. "No one's there now. Everyone's gone home."

Devika stared at him in disbelief. "The boys' toilet? Have you completely lost your mind?"

"It's private," Vishnu pressed. "No cameras. No one would ever expect you to be there."

"I am not going into the boys' toilet with you," Devika hissed, scandalized by the suggestion.

Vishnu's eyes softened, taking on a pleading quality that caught her off guard. "Please, madam. Just five minutes. I've been thinking about this all day."

The raw honesty in his voice stirred something in her. That dangerous curiosity she'd been fighting against all day resurged with startling intensity.

"It's too risky," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Everyone has left," Vishnu assured her. "Even Pathan is gone. Five minutes, that's all."

Devika knew she should refuse. Walk away. End this madness before it spiraled further out of control. Yet she found herself saying, "You go first. I'll follow in two minutes."

Vishnu's eyes widened with surprise and satisfaction. He nodded once, then slipped out the door.

Devika stood frozen, disbelieving her own words. What was she doing? This was beyond reckless—it was career suicide. Yet her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her to the door and then down the corridor.

The building was eerily quiet, the usual cacophony of student voices replaced by a heavy silence. Her footsteps echoed on the tiled floor as she approached the door marked "Gents." She paused, listening for any sound that might indicate someone else's presence. Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Devika pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The smell hit her first—a pungent mixture of disinfectant and something distinctly male. The harsh fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow over the dingy tiles. Crude graffiti decorated the walls—anatomical drawings, phone numbers, and vulgar phrases. Her eyes widened as she spotted her own name scrawled inside a heart, surrounded by lewd suggestions.

"Oh my God," she whispered, the reality of where she was crashing over her. "I can't believe I'm in the boys' toilet."

Vishnu emerged from one of the stalls, his expression a mixture of triumph and disbelief. "You actually came."

The space suddenly felt claustrophobic. The toilet was smaller than she had imagined, barely enough room for two people to stand without touching.

"This is insane," Devika said, making one last attempt at reason. "We shouldn't be here."

Vishnu stepped closer. "We're already here. No one will know."

His proximity made her pulse quicken. This close, she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw. He was no longer just a student but a man with desires that mirrored her own forbidden longings.

"Fine," she said, her voice barely audible. "Five minutes. Then I'm leaving."

Vishnu nodded, his gaze intense with anticipation. "Show me."

Devika's fingers moved slowly to the pin at her shoulder. With deliberate grace, she unhooked it and let her pallu slip away, the fabric cascading down her shoulder to reveal the fitted blouse beneath.

Vishnu's breath caught, his heart hammering as he drank in her figure now bared without the cover of the pallu—just a few inches away from him in the confined space. His eyes traced the curves of her breasts beneath the fabric of her blouse, the delicate line of her collarbone, the smooth expanse of her neck.

"Beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with admiration.

Devika stood still, allowing his gaze to wander over her. Despite the sordid location, despite the wrongness of it all, something about his obvious appreciation sent a forbidden thrill through her body.

"You have such a sexy figure," Vishnu said, his eyes lingering on her cleavage. "A real Kerala woman."

His gaze dropped lower, to where her saree was dbangd just above her navel. "I want to see more," he said, his voice taking on a commanding edge that surprised her.

Before Devika could react, his hand slid to the knot where her saree was tucked at her waist. His fingers pressed firmly against the fabric, against her skin beneath.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, startled by his boldness. "You promised not to touch me."

"Sorry," Vishnu said, though his eyes showed no remorse as he pulled the fabric down, revealing her bare navel and the smooth curve of her hips. "I couldn't help myself."

Devika's pulse raced as cool air touched the newly exposed skin of her midriff. She couldn't believe his audacity—pulling at her saree as if he had the right, as if he owned her body.

"You can't just pull my saree like that," she said, her voice tight with indignation. "If you want to see more, ask me. Don't grab."

"I'm sorry," Vishnu repeated, his eyes fixed on her exposed navel. "You're just so beautiful. So perfect."

His words shouldn't have pleased her, but they did. The raw appreciation in his voice soothed something wounded inside her—a part starved of genuine admiration for too long.

"You're the hottest woman in the entire college," Vishnu continued, his voice husky with desire. "A real Kerala beauty."

Devika felt her cheeks warm at his praise. This was madness—standing in a boys' toilet, her saree pulled low, her pallu discarded, being admired by a student nearly half her age. Yet the forbidden nature of it sent a dark thrill through her veins.

Neither of them noticed the small black dome hidden in the corner of the ceiling, its lens capturing every moment of their forbidden encounter.

In his office, Seenu sat transfixed before the monitor. His breath hitched as the CCTV showed Devika standing without her pallu, her saree dbangd only around her curves. His eyes widened when Vishnu's hand slid to her waist, fingers gripping the saree tuck.

With one smooth pull, the fabric loosened, baring her navel to his hungry gaze. Seenu leaned closer to the screen, his pulse racing as he watched, unable to tear his eyes away. How could Devika—the proper, professional Devika—allow a student to place his hands on her saree tuck and pull it low? The sight confirmed every fantasy he'd ever harbored about her.

Back in the toilet, Devika felt exposed and vulnerable, yet strangely powerful. The knowledge that she could evoke such naked desire in a young man was intoxicating.