Fantasy The Teacher Who Knelt to maid Son

[Batni123]

The Queen Who Knelt

Part One: The First Crack

The summer of 2020 did not arrive in Mumbai; it invaded.
By the third week of May the city had surrendered. The sea breeze had died, the roads were empty, and the lockdown had stretched so long that even the dogs had stopped barking at nothing.

 Inside flat 1201 of Sea-Facing CHS, Malabar Hill, the air-conditioner in the master bedroom had given up two weeks ago, and the repairman was not “essential”.
Radha Mehta, thirty-six, Head of Mathematics at St. Xavier’s Boys’, had always believed she was made of discipline.
Her husband, Captain Arvind Mehta, had been at sea since January.

 The last time they had made love was 27 December 2019; she remembered the date because she had marked it on the calendar like an exam.

Since then: nothing.
No touch, no voice, only a weekly satellite call that lasted exactly eight minutes and ended with “Duty first, Radha.”
She told herself she did not mind.
She told herself desire was a distraction for weaker minds.
She told herself this every night while lying alone on the left side of the king-size bed, the right side cold and perfectly made, thighs pressed so tightly together that the muscles ached.

She kept the lie going until the heat and the silence finally won.
The only two people who still entered her flat every day were Lakshmi and her son Nikhil.
Lakshmi had been sweeping Radha’s floors since Nikhil was five. She was forty-two, small, cheerful, and completely unaware that her quiet, obedient son had grown into something else entirely.
Nikhil was nineteen now, repeating Class 12 because of the pandemic, still in the same blue-and-white uniform he had worn since.
He was six feet tall, broad across the shoulders from gully cricket, and still terrified of Radha.
She had, after all, made him cry in Class  by striking his knuckles with a wooden ruler for forgetting the factor theorem.
He had never forgotten again.

Every morning at 9:15 the bell rang.
Nikhil entered with folded hands, eyes on the floor.
“Good morning, Ma’am.”
“Late by forty seconds. Sit. Page 217. I want every sum solved before lunch.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
He obeyed. He always obeyed.
But Radha had started to notice things she had trained herself not to notice.
The way his white shirt clung to his back when the fan died.
The way the veins stood out on his forearms when he wrote fast.
The way his voice had dropped an octave since last year, yet still cracked when she raised an eyebrow.
She told herself it was simple biology.

Nine months without sex.
A handsome boy in the house every day.
Nothing more.
She told herself the lie until the afternoon of Monday, 18 May, when the longest power cut of the season hit.
The inverter died at 2:07 p.m.
The ceiling fan slowed, groaned, stopped.
The flat became a kiln.
Nikhil sat at the teak study table, sweat darkening his shirt in a perfect V down his spine.
Lakshmi was in the kitchen, washing clothes by hand because the machine needed electricity.
Radha stood in the doorway holding two steel glasses of nimbu pani.
She had changed into the thinnest cotton saree she owned (off-white, almost translucent when wet). No blouse, only a beige bra underneath. Respectable, but only just.

She placed one glass in front of him.
“Drink. You’ll collapse otherwise.”
He took it with both hands, the way he used to take punishment slips.
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
She did not leave.
She stood there fanning herself with the end of her pallu, watching a bead of sweat roll down the side of his neck and disappear under the collar.
“Impossible to study in this heat,” she said, more to herself than to him.
He nodded, eyes fixed on the graph paper.
She hesitated.
Then, for the first time in fourteen years, Radha Mehta did something that was not in the syllabus.

She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.
Nikhil’s pen froze mid-equation.
Radha Ma’am never sat with students.
She took a sip of her own nimbu pani, then spoke in the same voice she used to announce surprise tests.
“When I was your age and the lights went out, we played board games. Ludo, Snakes & Ladders… anything to keep the brain from boiling.”
Nikhil stared at her as if she had started speaking in Latin.
She almost smiled.
“Do you still have that old Ludo set in the storeroom?”
He was on his feet before she finished the sentence.
“Yes, Ma’am!”
He ran.
While he searched, Radha stood in the living room and felt her pulse in her throat.

She asked herself what she was doing.
She answered herself with brutal honesty.
I am lonely.
I am starving.
And this boy will never tell a soul, because he is more afraid of disappointing me than he is of anything else in the world.
The thought should have disgusted her.
Instead it soaked the crotch of her panties.
Nikhil came back clutching the dusty red-and-yellow box like a sacred offering.
Radha took a deep breath, steadied her voice, and began the slow, careful, terrifying game that would destroy everything she thought she was.

Day 1 of seven had begun.
She did not know yet that by Day 7 she would be sitting across from him in nothing but a bra, heart hammering, watching the same boy who once cried under her ruler stare at her breasts like they were the answer to every question he had ever been afraid to ask.

She only knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Nikhil would never betray her.
And that was enough to start.

[Uvaaaa]

Nice plot and update soon

[Batni123]

Part One: The First Crack

Chapter Two: Day 1 – Monday, 18 May 2020
The Ludo board looked older than Nikhil himself: faded colours, four chipped wooden tokens per colour, the dice cracked at one corner.
He placed it on the dining table with the same care he once used to place answer sheets on her desk, afraid of creasing them.
Radha sat first, folding the pleats of her damp cotton saree with the precision she applied to everything.
Nikhil took the opposite chair, spine straight, hands resting on his thighs exactly the way he had been trained to sit when the entire class was punished.
She opened the box, let the tokens tumble out, rolled the dice once between her palms as if warming it.
“Simple rules,” she said, voice perfectly level. “First to get all four tokens home wins. No stakes, no punishment. Just a break from this heat.”
Nikhil nodded so hard the chair creaked.
She rolled first. A five.
Red token out. Click.
“Your turn.”
He rolled a two. His fingers trembled; the dice almost slipped off the table.
Green token moved. Eyes glued to the board.
They played in near silence for the first two games.
Only the soft clack of wood, the distant splash of Lakshmi washing clothes in the kitchen, and the thick, wet heat pressing down.
Radha won the first game in seven minutes flat.
She leaned back slightly, fanned herself with the end of her pallu.
“Still the champion,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth lifting a fraction.
Nikhil exhaled in relief. He had been braced for sarcasm.
She reset the tokens without asking.
“Best of three?”
He nodded again.
Second game.
She played badly on purpose, moving tokens into the open, miscounting spaces.
Nikhil noticed. His eyes flicked to her face once, twice, confused, then back to the board.
He won.
The moment his last green token slid home, his shoulders sagged. He had survived.
Third game.
Radha needed to be sure.
She needed to know, beyond doubt, that the hunger she felt burning in her own stomach was mirrored in him.
She leaned forward to reach a fallen red token that had rolled near his side of the board.
The movement was natural, unplanned (or so it would appear).
The pallu, already loose from the heat and repeated fanning, obeyed gravity.
It slipped.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
The neckline of her sleeveless cream blouse gaped open for four long seconds.
The beige cotton bra cupped her full breasts; a deep, shadowed cleavage appeared, glistening faintly with perspiration in the dull afternoon light.
Radha did not look up.
She kept her gaze on the board, pretending to study her next move, counting heartbeats instead.
One… two… three… four…
In her peripheral vision she saw everything she needed.
Nikhil’s breath stopped entirely.
His eyes dropped to the open neckline like a magnet.
His lips parted.
The hand hovering over the dice froze mid-air.
A flush started at his throat and raced upward until his ears glowed crimson.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even seem to remember how lungs worked.
On the silent count of five, Radha lifted her left hand, casually tugged the pallu back into place, and straightened.
Only then did Nikhil jerk his gaze back to the board, face now the colour of fresh beetroot.
His fingers shook so violently when he picked up the dice that it rattled against the wood like hail on a tin roof.
Radha allowed herself one slow, hidden exhale.
Confirmation received.
The boy was not merely obedient.
He was ravenous.
And he had looked at her cleavage the way a starving man stares at a locked glass case full of food: helpless, guilty, aching.
She rolled her dice, moved a red token two spaces, and spoke in her usual crisp teacher-voice.
“Your turn, Nikhil. Don’t keep the board waiting.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he croaked, voice breaking like he was thirteen again.
He rolled a six.
His last token slid home.
He won the third game.
Radha smiled, small and secret, and began stacking the tokens back into their compartments.
“Thank you for playing,” she said softly.
This time she let her eyes rest on his flushed, stunned face for one deliberate second before standing.
The pallu stayed perfectly in place for the rest of the afternoon.
But the damage (sweet, irreversible damage) was done.
She knew now.
He wanted her.
Desperately.
And he would never, ever tell a soul.
Day 1 ended with the official score 2–1 in Nikhil’s favour on the Ludo board…
and an unacknowledged, far more dangerous score of 1–0 to Radha in the game that had truly begun.

[Batni123]

Part One: The First Crack

Chapter Three: Day 2 – Tuesday, 19 May 2020

The next afternoon the power died again at exactly 2:11 p.m.
Radha had been waiting for it the way an addict waits for the dealer.
She walked into the study at 2:17 carrying two glasses of cold Roohafza, the rose syrup staining the liquid blood-red.
Nikhil was already at the table, pretending to solve problems, but the page was blank except for a single shaky circle drawn over and over.
He stood the moment she entered, chair scbanging.
“Sit,” she said, softer than usual.
He sat.
She placed one glass in front of him, took the opposite chair without ceremony.
Today she wore a pale pink cotton saree, almost weightless, the kind widows wear on quiet days. No jewellery except the thin mangalsutra and a tiny black thread on her wrist. Her hair was still in its severe bun, but two damp strands had escaped and clung to her neck.
Nikhil’s eyes flicked to those strands, then away, then back again, as if magnetised.
Radha pretended not to notice.
She took a slow sip of the Roohafza, let the glass rest against her lower lip a second longer than necessary.
“You beat me yesterday,” she said. “I don’t like losing.”
A nervous laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “S-sorry, Ma’am.”
“Don’t apologise. You earned it.”
Silence stretched, thick and humming.
She set the glass down.
“Five quick games today. Loser drinks an extra glass of this horrible sweet thing. Deal?”
He nodded so fast the Roohafza in his glass trembled.
They played.
First game: Radha won in six moves.
She pushed the second glass toward him. “Drink.”
He gulped it down, made a face like a child forced to take medicine. A bead of the red syrup clung to his upper lip. He licked it away, tongue darting out, and Radha felt the movement low in her stomach.
Second game: she let him win, but barely.
She drank the penalty glass herself, grimacing theatrically.
“Disgusting,” she declared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Nikhil laughed: a small, startled sound that seemed to surprise even him.
Third game.
Halfway through, the pallu slipped again.
This time it was not entirely accidental.
She had pinned it loosely that morning, knowing the cotton would win eventually.
When she leaned forward to kill one of his tokens, the pleats gave way. The pallu slid off her left shoulder and pooled on the table like spilled milk.
The pink blouse beneath was sleeveless, thin, almost the same colour as her skin.
The tops of her breasts rose and fell with each breath; a single bead of sweat slid from her collarbone and disappeared into the shadowed valley between them.
She let it stay there for eight full seconds.
Nikhil’s dice slipped from his fingers and rolled off the table.
He didn’t move to pick it up.
His eyes were fixed on that single bead of sweat as it travelled downward, helpless.
Radha counted silently, the same way she used to count seconds when she made students stand in murga position.
One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight…
On the ninth second she lifted her hand slowly, almost languidly, and repositioned the pallu.
Only then did Nikhil blink, jerk back to life, and scramble under the table for the fallen dice.
His ears were scarlet; the back of his neck looked hot enough to fry an egg.
Radha picked up her glass, took a sip, and spoke as though nothing had happened.
“Your turn. And try not to drop the dice again. The floor is dirty.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
He rolled a one. Useless.
She won the third game.
He drank the penalty glass without being told.
Fourth game.
She lost on purpose, badly, obviously.
When the last of her red tokens was sent back to start, she leaned back in the chair and sighed.
“You’re improving fast.”
He ducked his head, but she caught the tiny, proud smile before he hid it.
Fifth and final game.
Lakshmi’s voice floated in from the kitchen: “Didi, chai bana doon?”
Radha answered without breaking eye contact with Nikhil. “No need, Lakshmi. We’re fine.”
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Nikhil rolled. Needed a six. Got a six on the first try.
His last token marched home.
He had beaten her three games to two.
Radha let the silence settle for a moment, then spoke very quietly.
“You win the day.”
She pushed the second unopened bottle of Roohafza toward him. “Victory prize. Finish it.”
He hesitated, then obeyed, drinking straight from the bottle because the glasses were empty.
His throat worked as he swallowed; a thin red line trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Radha watched every movement.
When he lowered the bottle, breathing hard, she reached out, slow enough that he could have moved away.
He didn’t.
With the edge of her pallu she wiped the red stain from the corner of his lip.
Just once. Barely a touch.
His entire body went rigid.
She let the pallu fall back into place.
“Back to work,” she said, standing.
But as she turned, she added, almost as an afterthought, so softly he almost missed it:
“Tomorrow, same time. Bring your A-game.”
Nikhil sat frozen in the chair long after she left, the taste of rose syrup thick on his tongue and the ghost of her pallu brushing his mouth like a brand.
Day 2 was over.
No clothes had been removed.
No direct words of desire spoken.
But Radha now had proof twice over, and the second time had lasted eight full seconds of open, shameless staring.
The crack in the wall was widening, millimetre by millimetre.
And neither of them wanted it to stop.

[Batni123]

Part One: The First Crack

Chapter Four: Day 3 – Wednesday, 20 May 2020

The heat was worse today, thick and sour, the kind that made the air feel like wet cotton stuffed down the throat.
At 1:58 p.m. Lakshmi’s phone rang. Mrs. Sharma from 4B, voice shrill through the speaker: her maid had tested positive, could Lakshmi please come for two hours? Double pay, emergency, please-please.
Lakshmi looked at Radha with apologetic eyes.
“Didi, I’ll just go and come, forty-fifty minutes maximum…”
Radha waved her off with the magnanimity of a queen granting a favour.
“Go. Sharma-ji will have a heart attack otherwise. Lock the front door from outside, I’ll open when you ring.”
The lift doors closed on Lakshmi at 2:03 p.m.
The flat fell into a sudden, humming silence.
Radha stood in the corridor for a full minute, listening to her own pulse.
Then she walked to the study.
Nikhil was already at the table, notebook open, but the pen lay untouched.
He stood the moment she appeared, the way he had been trained for fourteen years.
She did not tell him to sit.
Instead she placed the Ludo board in the centre of the dining table (same place, same faded colours) and pulled out her chair.
Today she wore a bottle-green saree, thin as onion skin, no sleeveless blouse this time, just a regular short-sleeved one the colour of wet moss.
But the fabric clung everywhere: waist, hips, the heavy sway of her breasts.
She sat.
He sat.
She spoke first, voice low, almost conversational.
“Lakshmi won’t be back for at least forty minutes. That gives us time for a proper game.”
Nikhil swallowed. The sound was audible.
She opened the box, let the tokens spill.
“New rule today. Loser does ten push-ups. On the marble. No knee cheating. Agreed?”
He nodded, eyes already bright.
They played.
First game: Radha won in five minutes.
She leaned back, folded her arms under her breasts.
“Floor.”
Nikhil dropped instantly.
One… two… three…
His college shirt stretched tight across his back; sweat darkened the cotton between his shoulder blades.
Radha counted slowly, deliberately, letting each number linger.
“…eight… nine… ten. Up.”
He rose, breathing hard, hair stuck to his forehead.
Second game: she let him win, but made him fight for it.
When his last token reached home he looked up, half expecting a trap.
She smiled, small and dangerous.
“My turn.”
She slipped off her sandals, placed her palms flat on the cool marble, and executed ten perfect push-ups.
The saree pallu fell forward with every dip, brushing the floor; the blouse pulled tight across her back, outlining the bra strap and the soft flesh beneath.
Nikhil’s mouth went dry.
At the tenth push-up she stayed low for an extra second, then rose gracefully.
“Your deal,” she said.
Third game.
Halfway through she leaned across to move a token and let the pallu slip again (this time deliberately, but slowly enough to look accidental).
The green blouse had three hooks at the front; the top one had mysteriously come undone sometime between breakfast and now.
When the pallu fell away, the blouse gaped just enough to reveal the inner curves of both breasts pressed together by the tight bra, a single bead of sweat sliding down into shadow.
She stayed in that position (arm extended, body angled toward him) for six full seconds.
Nikhil’s dice slipped from his fingers again.
This time it rolled all the way to the floor and kept going until it disappeared under the sofa.
He didn’t even notice.
His eyes were locked on the open blouse, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Radha counted silently (one… two… three… four… five… six…) then straightened, pulled the pallu back into place, and hooked the blouse closed with calm fingers.
“Dice is under the sofa,” she said mildly. “Go fetch.”
He dropped to his knees, crawled, fumbled blindly until he found it.
When he came back up his face was scarlet and his breathing ragged.
She won that game.
He did another ten push-ups.
This time when he was on the floor she stepped forward and placed one bare foot lightly between his shoulder blades (just enough pressure to remind him who she still was).
“Form, Nikhil. Back straight. Or we start again.”
He groaned into the marble but obeyed.
Fourth game.
She lost on purpose, spectacularly.
When his final token reached home he looked at her, waiting for the order.
Radha stood, walked to the centre of the room, and lowered herself to the floor.
Ten push-ups.
But this time she let the pallu fall completely off one shoulder and stay there.
Every time she went down, the blouse strained; every time she came up, her breasts rose like an offering.
Nikhil stood rooted, fists clenched at his sides, watching every movement with the hunger of a boy who had never been allowed to want anything.
At the tenth push-up she stayed low again, arms locked, face inches from the floor, then looked up at him through the fallen strands of her hair.
“Time?” she asked, voice husky.
He couldn’t speak. He just shook his head.
She rose slowly, let the pallu hang loose for another three heartbeats, then dbangd it back.
The front door buzzed. Lakshmi was early.
Radha smoothed her saree, adjusted the pallu perfectly, and walked to the intercom as if nothing had happened.
She pressed the button. “Aa jao, Lakshmi.”
Then, without turning around, she spoke to the boy still standing in the middle of the room, breathing like he had run a marathon.
“Tomorrow she goes to two flats. We will have ninety minutes.”
She paused at the doorway, looked back over her shoulder.
“Bring water. You’ll need it.”
Nikhil stood alone among the scattered tokens, the taste of Roohafza still on his tongue and the image of Radha Ma’am doing push-ups with her pallu down burned forever behind his eyes.
Day 3 was over.
Forty minutes of innocence had been quietly, surgically murdered.
And both of them were already counting the hours until tomorrow.

[Batni123]

Part One: The First Crack

Chapter Five: Day 4 – Thursday, 21 May 2020
The morning began with a small, deliberate ritual.
Radha woke at six, bathed in cold water, and stood in front of the mirror longer than usual.
She chose a plain white cotton saree (so thin it was almost translucent when the light hit it right) and a matching blouse with tiny hooks down the front.
She left the top two hooks undone, then fastened a light safety pin so the gap would stay hidden until she wanted it open.
She told herself it was for the heat.
She lied very well.
At 1:47 p.m. Lakshmi’s phone rang twice in quick succession: Mrs. Sharma again, and now Mrs. Gupta from 7B (both maids down, both desperate).
Lakshmi looked pleadingly at Radha.
“Didi, they’ll pay triple. I’ll be back by four-thirty, pakka.”
Radha gave permission with the calm of a woman who had rehearsed this moment in her head all night.
The door closed at 1:55.
The lock clicked.
The flat fell into a hush so complete she could hear the clock in the living room ticking.
She walked to the study.
Nikhil was already standing (he had been standing since 1:50, notebook open, pen uncapped, pretending to revise circles).
The moment she appeared he straightened like a soldier.
Today she did not speak immediately.
She placed the Ludo board on the dining table, took her chair, and only then looked at him.
“Sit.”
He sat.
She opened the box slowly, let the tokens fall with soft wooden clatters.
“New rule today,” she said, voice low and steady. “Loser removes one small thing: tie, watch, bangle, hair-clip. Nothing major. If at any point you want to stop, say the word and we go back to push-ups forever. No questions, no punishment. Understood?”
Nikhil’s throat worked. He stared at the table for a long moment, then nodded.
“Words, Nikhil.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he whispered.
She rolled first. A three.
They played.
First game: he lost.
His fingers shook so badly he could barely unknot the college tie.
He folded it into a perfect square and placed it in the centre of the table like an offering.
Radha’s eyes flicked to the small pile: one blue tie.
She said nothing, just rolled again.
Second game: she lost on purpose.
She removed the thin gold bangle from her right wrist, let it clink softly beside his tie.
Two items now.
Side by side.
Third game: he lost again.
He hesitated, then slid off his analogue watch (cheap Titan, probably a birthday gift) and placed it on the growing pile.
Three items.
Fourth game.
She leaned forward to move a token.
The safety pin on her blouse “accidentally” caught on the edge of the board and came loose.
The two undone hooks opened.
The blouse parted just enough to reveal the inner curves of both breasts pressed together by a simple white bra, the faint shadow between them, the slow rise and fall of her breathing.
She stayed in that position (arm extended, torso angled) for seven deliberate seconds.
Nikhil’s dice fell from his hand and rolled in circles, forgotten.
His eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the open blouse as if the world had narrowed to that single strip of skin.
Seven seconds.
On the eighth she straightened, casually re-hooked the blouse, and re-pinned the pallu.
“Clumsy of me,” she murmured.
Nikhil swallowed audibly.
She won that game.
He removed his second bangle (her left wrist this time).
Now the pile held: tie, watch, two gold bangles.
Fifth game.
She lost spectacularly.
She removed both her small gold earrings, placed them gently on the pile.
Six items now.
Three of his, three of hers.
A perfect, silent balance.
The clock on the wall showed 2:41 p.m.
They had fifty minutes left.
Radha looked at the small collection of their things lying together and felt something inside her chest tighten and burn.
She spoke very softly.
“One more game. If you win, you may choose what I remove next. If I win… I choose what you remove.”
Nikhil’s breath hitched.
He rolled the dice with a hand that barely functioned.
Six.
Six again.
Another six.
His last token raced home.
He won.
Silence stretched, thick enough to choke on.
Radha looked at him across the table, eyes steady.
“Well?” she asked. “What will it be?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
His voice came out cracked and raw.
“Your… your pallu, Ma’am.”
She did not flinch.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted the pallu from her shoulder and let it slide down her arm until it rested on the table like a white flag of surrender.
The blouse was fully visible now: thin cotton, damp in places, clinging to the shape of her bra, the outline of her nipples just beginning to show.
She sat back, hands in her lap, and let him look.
Twenty full seconds.
No words.
Only the sound of his breathing and the ticking clock.
At the end of the twentieth second she picked up the pallu again, dbangd it loosely (not pinned, not tucked, just resting) and spoke.
“Time is running out. Lakshmi will be back soon.”
She stood, gathered the tokens, closed the box.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she reached across and touched the small pile of their belongings (tie, watch, bangles, earrings) with two fingers.
“Leave these here,” she said. “Tomorrow we continue from where we left off.”
She walked away without looking back.
Nikhil remained seated, staring at the little altar of their discarded things, the white pallu still lying where she had left it like a promise.
Day 4 was over.
Six innocent objects lay between them on the teak table.
And the distance from teacher and student had shrunk to the width of a fallen pallu.
Tomorrow, ninety minutes.
Tomorrow, the next layer.
Neither of them would sleep tonight.

[Batni123]

Part One: The First Crack

Chapter Six: Day 5 – Friday, 22 May 2020


Lakshmi left at 1:51 p.m. with promises and apologies.
The door shut. The chain slid home. Silence fell like a curtain.
Radha walked into the living room in a white cotton saree so thin it clung to every curve when she moved.
Sleeveless cream blouse, six small front hooks. She had fastened only the bottom four.
The pallu was dbangd loosely, ready to fall at the slightest excuse.
No petticoat today (just a thin white panty beneath the saree).
Hair loose and damp, brushing her waist.
Nikhil stood waiting in his usual lockdown clothes: faded sky-blue round-neck T-shirt, soft navy track pants, bare feet.
He had clearly showered and changed the moment Lakshmi stepped out; his hair was still wet, a tiny drop of water sliding down his temple.
The dining table waited exactly as yesterday:
• his sky-blue T-shirt from Day 4
• her two gold bangles
• her small earrings
• the white pallu folded into a perfect square.
Radha sat.
He sat.
She opened the Ludo board.
“Rule for today,” she said quietly. “Loser removes one agreed layer. We stop at underwear. If either of us says ‘stop’, everything ends forever. Clear?”
He swallowed. “Yes, Ma’am.”
First game – she lost on purpose.
She stood.
Slowly lifted the pallu from her shoulder and let it fall to the floor.
The sleeveless blouse was fully visible now, the top two hooks open, the inner curves of her breasts clearly outlined.
She sat again.
Second game – he lost.
He pulled the faded T-shirt over his head and dropped it on the pile.
Bare-chested, skin already shining with sweat.
Third game.
She leaned forward to move a token.
The blouse gaped. The white lace bra and the deep valley between her breasts appeared for six full seconds.
She counted his stunned silence, then straightened and casually hooked the blouse again.
She won.
He stood, pushed the navy track pants down his legs, stepped out, folded them once, placed them on the pile.
Now only grey briefs, old and soft, the thick ridge of his erection impossible to hide.
He sat, thighs pressed tight together.
Fourth game.
She lost.
She stood.
Six pleats at her waist.
She pulled the tuck free, unwound the white cotton in one slow turn164.
The saree pooled at her feet.
She stepped out of it.
Only the sleeveless blouse and thin white panty remained.
She sat.
Nikhil’s breathing was audible.
Fifth game.
He lost again.
He stood.
His thumbs hooked into the waistband of the grey briefs.
Radha’s voice was soft but final.
“Leave them for now. That’s the rule we set: underwear stays on today.”
He exhaled shakily and sat, still in the briefs.
Sixth and final game.
The clock showed 3:17 p.m.
Thirteen minutes left.
Radha looked straight at him.
“One final layer each. Loser removes underwear. Winner keeps theirs. That’s all for today. Sunday we decide the rest.”
They rolled.
Tokens crawled.
He needed a six.
He rolled a four.
Then a two.
She needed a three.
She rolled a three.
She won.
Radha stood without drama.
Hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the white panty.
Slid it down her thighs, over her knees, let it drop.
Stepped out.
Folded it once.
Placed the small, slightly damp cotton square on top of the pile.
Then she sat again.
Completely naked below the waist, blouse still on but open at the top, breasts rising and falling, the dark triangle between her thighs now fully exposed to the boy who used to tremble when she raised her voice.
Nikhil stared, mouth open, hands clenched on his thighs, cock straining against the grey briefs so hard it looked painful.
Ten full seconds of silence.
Then Radha spoke, voice calm.
“You keep your briefs today. That was the rule.”
She stood, gathered the fallen saree, dbangd it loosely around her hips without tucking (just holding it in place with one hand) and walked toward the bedroom.
At the doorway she paused, looked back.
“Sunday, ninety minutes. Maybe more. Be ready.”
The bedroom door closed with a soft click.
Nikhil remained at the table surrounded by almost all their clothes and the small white panty that now crowned the pile like a flag of surrender.
He pulled on his track pants and T-shirt with shaking hands, heart hammering so loud he was sure the neighbours could hear.
When Lakshmi returned at 4:26 p.m., everything looked perfectly normal.
Except the tiny damp panty waiting patiently on the table for Sunday.
Day 5 was over.
Forty-eight hours of pretending lay ahead.
And both of them already knew exactly what would happen when the last piece finally fell.

[Batni123]

Plz comment and like

[readersp]

Thrilling.. immaculate writing.. suspense and erotic!!! Well done!!! Keep going!!!

[JohnS112]

Plz comment and like

Hot story… beautiful writing

[Sengolan]

writing is superb. But missing he/she in some places

[Saj890]

Very nice

[Batni123]

writing is superb. But missing he/she in some places

Typing in mobile so little bit problem happens sry for inconvenience

[Batni123]

Slowly nikhil will take over the power and will rule each and every inch of radha any idea how you want radha to be used by nikhil is most welcome

[readersp]

Waiting eagerly for your updates!!!

[santhu304]

Awesome

[Kore shivkant]

Radha started a dangerous game which she will lose to her student and he will be going to be her master forever story is having a great start..Show Nikhil a dominanting character.....slow seduction will be good...Make Radha regret her decision.....she started a serious game which she cannot end..... expecting the update soon....going to be one of the best story...

[Uvaaaa]

Awesome and update soon

[Batni123]

Interlude: The Night After Day 5
Friday, 22 May 2020 – 11:17 p.m.

The flat was dark except for the faint orange glow of the streetlight leaking through the living-room curtains.
Lakshmi had been asleep for over an hour, her soft snores drifting down the corridor.

Radha lay on her back in the master bedroom, eyes wide open, staring at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan.
The sheets were kicked to the foot of the bed; the night was too hot, and her skin still felt too alive to be covered.

Between her thighs she was swollen and slick.
Every time she shifted her legs she felt the ghost of where his gaze had been (where her own panty had slid down in front of him only hours earlier).

She pressed her thighs together and let out a shaky breath.

Across the narrow service balcony that connected the two bedrooms, Nikhil lay on his thin cotton mattress, staring at the same ceiling through the open window.
His heart had not slowed down once since 4:26 p.m.

He kept replaying the exact second in slow motion:

Radha Mehta (the woman who once made him stand on the bench for forty minutes because his handwriting was “like a drunk spider”)
standing in the living room in nothing but that sleeveless cream blouse and the maroon saree,
reaching for the waistband of the thin white panty he had watched her wear for five days,
and sliding it down her legs in front of him.

He had expected the game to stop at blouses and pallus.
He had told himself this was just lockdown madness, something to pass the time, something that would never, could never go further than a little dangerous teasing.

And then she had looked him in the eye, hooked her thumbs in, and pulled the last piece down.

He remembered the exact sound the elastic made when it snapped against her thigh.
He remembered the way the cotton clung for a second to the wetness between her legs before it fell.
He remembered the small, dark patch in the centre of the fabric when she folded it and placed it on the pile like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hand moved unconsciously to his cock under the sheet (hard again, aching again).

He had not dared to believe, even in his most secret, shameful midnight fantasies, that Radha Ma’am would ever be naked in front of him.
Let alone naked from the waist down, sitting back on that chair with her legs slightly apart, letting him look.

He had stared so long and so hard that he still had the image burned behind his eyelids:
the neat triangle of dark hair, the swollen lips already glistening, the way her thighs trembled just a little when she realised how completely he was seeing her.

And the worst part (the best part) was that she had not looked ashamed.
She had looked relieved.

Like someone who had carried a terrible, heavy secret for years and finally set it down.

Nikhil rolled onto his side, pressed his face into the pillow to muffle the groan that wanted to escape.

He had grown up believing Radha Ma’am was made of ice and steel.
He had wet himself in Class 6 when she had raised her voice.
He had cried silently in the toilet after she had struck his knuckles raw.

And today that same woman had taken off her panty in front of him and sat back down with her legs open.

He came again without touching himself, just from the memory, biting the pillow to stay quiet.

In the master bedroom, Radha heard the faint, stifled sound through the open window and smiled into the dark.

She slipped one hand between her legs, circled her clit once, slowly, and whispered to the empty room:

“Tomorrow, baby.
Tomorrow you’ll do more than look.”

She came in less than thirty seconds, thighs clamping around her own fingers, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.

Neither of them slept that night.

They lay ten metres apart, separated by a thin balcony wall, both replaying the same impossible moment over and over:

The exact second the strictest teacher in St. Xavier’s became naked and open and waiting for the boy she had once terrorised.

And the lockdown night stretched on, hot and endless, filled with the sound of two hearts that had finally admitted what they had become.

Radha’s fingers were still between her thighs, slick and trembling, when the second, colder thought slid in like ice water.

What have I done?

Tomorrow is Saturday. Lakshmi will be home all day.
Sunday is two full days away.

Two days of sitting across from him at the dining table, pretending to check sums while remembering how it felt to slide my panty down in front of him.

Two days of watching his eyes flick to me and away, over and over, knowing he has seen me naked below… knowing he has seen me wet.

There is no undoing this.

She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her face into the pillow, and let the truth settle.

She had crossed the line the moment she let the cotton drop.
There was no “little bit further and then stop”.
The line was gone.

She pictured Sunday again, but slower this time, more honest.

She imagined walking in wearing only the maroon saree, nothing beneath.
Imagined letting it fall.
Imagined Nikhil finally reaching out.

But then the other picture came (unwanted, but persistent):
Nikhil freezing.
Nikhil staring, terrified, hands clenched at his sides, too afraid of the woman who once made him cry to even touch her breast.

She realised she didn’t know which version scared her more.

If he touched her, everything changed forever.
If he didn’t… she would have bared herself to a boy who was still too frightened to take what she offered.

Both possibilities made her stomach knot and her cunt clench at the same time.

She decided, there in the dark, that she would not lead on Sunday.

She would let him decide the pace.

She would stand naked and wait.

She wanted to see what the boy would do when he finally understood that the woman who had ruled him for fourteen years was now his to command.

She was almost certain he would do very little.
He was still the same boy who used to stand outside the staff room with folded hands, waiting for permission to speak.
He would look.
He would tremble.
He might touch her breast with one shaking finger and then apologise.

That would be enough.
The humiliation of being naked and untouched by a boy she had terrorised (that alone would feed her for years).

She came again, harder this time, muffling the sound in the pillow, thighs shaking at the thought of Sunday’s delicious, terrifying uncertainty.

Across the balcony, Nikhil was having the exact opposite conversation with himself.

He lay on his back, sheet kicked off, cock still half-hard and aching.

Tomorrow: nothing.
Sunday: everything or nothing.

He kept circling the same two futures.

Future one:
He walks in, she takes the saree off again, and he finally touches her (actually touches her breasts, her waist, maybe even dares to slide a finger between her legs like in the videos).
He imagined her moaning.
He imagined her guiding his hand.
He imagined her telling him he was allowed.

Future two:
He freezes.
He stands there like an idiot, staring, too afraid to move, and she realises he is still the same terrified boy.
She puts the saree back on, disappointed, and the game ends forever.

He didn’t know which future was real.

He only knew one thing with absolute certainty:
He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted Sunday to be Future One.

But he had no idea how to make it happen.

He rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow, and whispered into the dark like a prayer:

“Please don’t let me be too scared.
Please let me be brave enough to touch her.”

He came again, silently, hips jerking into the mattress, tears of frustration and hope mixing on his cheeks.

Nikhil remember Secret Fantasies

(The ones he never dared admit, even to himself, until Day 5 made them real)

For fourteen years, Nikhil had carried Radha Mehta around in his head like a loaded gun he was terrified to touch.

It started innocently enough.
For years, Nikhil’s fantasies about Radha Ma’am were never about love.
They were about revenge.

Class 7: the day she struck his knuckles until they bled because he forgot the value of π to 20 decimal places.
That night he imagined dragging her by the hair to the front of the empty classroom, bending her over the teacher’s desk, lifting her saree, and fucking her while the whole class watched her cry and beg.

Class 9: the day she made him stand outside the staff room holding his ears for forty minutes because he smiled at a joke.
That night he pictured tying her hands with her own ruler, forcing her to her knees in that same staff room, making her suck him while he called her every filthy name he had ever heard in porn.

Class 11: the day she humiliated him in front of thirty boys for a calculation mistake, voice dripping with disgust: “Even a Class 5 child could do better than this.”
That night he imagined chaining her to the blackboard, naked, legs spread, writing “I am Nikhil’s whore” a hundred times while he fucked her from behind and made her read each line aloud.

Every insult, every slap of the ruler, every cold stare (he stored them all).

And in the dark, when his hand was on his cock and his parents were asleep, he turned every wound into a scene where Radha Mehta (the untouchable terror) was stripped, bound, used, degraded, begging, broken.

He wanted to see her perfect bun come undone while he pulled her hair.
He wanted to see that stern mouth stretched around his cock, mascara running.
He wanted to come on her face and make her thank him.
He wanted to fuck her ass while she cried and called him Sir.
He wanted to piss on her precious mangalsutra and watch her lick it clean.

He wanted her to feel every ounce of powerlessness he had felt for fourteen years.

And then, on Day 5, she took her panty off in front of him.

Just like that.

No force.
No revenge.
She simply chose to give him what he had only ever taken in his darkest fantasies.

And suddenly the fantasies changed.

Now when he closed his eyes he saw her on her knees, naked, offering herself.
Now he imagined walking in on Sunday and not asking (just doing).
Pushing her against the wall, ripping the saree off, forcing her legs apart, fucking her mouth while she choked, bending her over the dining table where she once corrected his sums and taking her ass without warning, coming inside her and making her hold it while she crawled to clean his feet.

He no longer needed to imagine forcing her.
She had already started surrendering.

And that made the fantasies darker, sharper, more intoxicating.

Because now it wasn’t revenge.

It was ownership.

And on Sunday, when the door closed and she stood naked in front of him again, he would finally discover which version of himself walked through that door:

The boy who had spent years dreaming of breaking Radha Mehta…
or the man who was about to discover she had handed him the pieces willingly.

Either way, by the end of the seven days, the woman who had once ruled him with terror would know exactly what it felt like to be ruled in return.

And Nikhil, for the first time in his life, couldn’t wait to find out how far he would go.Neither of them slept.

They lay in their separate rooms, ten metres and a lifetime apart, both staring at the same dark ceiling, both asking the same question:

Sunday.
What will the other do when the door finally closes and there is no one left to pretend for?

The night stretched, hot and endless.

And the uncertainty (delicious, terrifying, unbearable) kept them both awake until the first birds began to call.

[Batni123]

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