Misc. Erotica Meera - The Math Teacher

[shamson9571]

The day dragged, bells blurring into afternoon torpor. Meera, meanwhile, dove back into her rhythm—marking midterms, sipping tepid coffee from a steel tumbler. Priya burst into the staff room like a comma splice, short hair tousled, red salwar rumpled from a rowdy 9th-grade debate.

"Meera! There you are. Hiding from my soliloquies? Come on, spill—how's the calculus cult treating you? Any rebels yet?"

Meera laughed, pushing aside her stack.
"Priya, you're a whirlwind. No rebels, just one boy with clever doubts. Keeps me sharp."

They fell into easy rhythm: Priya regaling tales of a student mangling "Ode to a Nightingale" into "Ode to a Night Eagle,"
Meera countering with a class's collective groan over partial derivatives.

"You're from Kerala, right? Priya sounds like it—spicy talk." Priya grinned: "Thrissur girl, born and bred. You Mangalore? That accent's a dead giveaway—soft like coconut milk."

Normal chatter flowed—weekend plans (Priya: pub hop in Indiranagar; Meera: family lunch), gripes about the canteen's watery sambar—until the bell called Priya away. "Lunch tomorrow? My treat—filter coffee that doesn't taste like dishwater."
"Deal," Meera said, waving her off, a warmth blooming in her chest. Friendship, unexpected variable.

End of day crept in, sun dipping to russet. Arjun stayed late as ritual, lingering over "revision" while corridors emptied. He proceeded to the parking, heart a metronome, checking shadows for her scooty. Has she gone? No—there, glinting orange under the neem tree. He hung back by the gate, half-hidden in the bougainvillea hedge, watching her emerge from the building: saree swaying, bun loosening further, strands dancing like stray roots in a polynomial.

She walked toward the gate, keys jingling, lost in thought—perhaps that clever doubt, or Priya's jokes. Arjun tracked her: hips' subtle sine wave, the pleats' disciplined march. Just as she passed the threshold, one single strong wind occurred—a rogue gust from the west, monsoon tease in November dry. It whipped up, playful tyrant, displacing the saree pallu sideways in a dramatic flourish.
Arjun didn't miss this. The orange georgette parted like a solved parenthesis, revealing her navel in stark, unhurried glory.

He stood frozen, time dilating to five eternal seconds. It was pure heaven: the navel, round and deep, a perfect circular depression etched into the flat expanse of her midriff, diameter perhaps two inches, depth a tempting half, walls smooth as the inner surface of a torus, sloping inward with the precision of a conical frustum. No hair, no adornment—just warm, talc-glowed skin, the faint vertical linea alba trailing south like an axis of symmetry, the rim a subtle ridge begging for a fingertip's trace. In the wind's backlight, it shadowed dramatically—the center a dark zero, infinite in its finite pull, like the pole of a complex function, residue waiting to be extracted. He memorized it deep: the way it breathed with her startled intake, contracting like a limit to a point; the orange hem fluttering at the edge, teasing integration over the boundary. Five seconds—long enough for his mind to compute the area πr²/4, the volume of the dip a spherical cap h²(3r - h)/3—bliss, revelation, the asymptote finally grazed.

The wind died as abruptly as born. Meera gasped softly, hand flying to adjust—pallu resettled, pleats patted, navel vanished like a ghost variable. She glanced around, cheeks tinged rose, then mounted her scooty, engine purring to life. She zipped away, orange flame in twilight, leaving Arjun rooted, erection renewed, satisfaction flooding like an indefinite integral unbound.

He walked home in a daze, the five seconds a talisman. No curses now—just gratitude. The breast stretch, the almost-reveal, the wind's gift: layers of her, chained and ruled, pulling him deeper. Tonight, sleep would come easy, dream-fueled by that navel zero, the chain complete for one more turn.

[shamson9571]

Episode 6 – Partial Fractions

Arjun stumbled through the gate long after the streetlights had flickered on, the five-second wind-gift of Meera’s navel still looping behind his eyes like a high-definition integral.

That perfect oval dip, the way the orange saree had framed it for one heartbeat, then snatched it away, had branded itself onto his retinas. He barely heard Lakshmi’s “Beta, food is cold, heat it na” as he drifted to his room, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed still in his uniform.

The fan spun uselessly above him.
He freed himself from his trousers with trembling fingers and closed his eyes.
There it was again: the navel, round and deep, a warm, breathing zero.
He pictured himself kneeling before her, her saree lifted just enough, his tongue tracing the rim, dipping into the soft hollow, tasting talc and faint salt.
Then the fantasy darkened, thickened: his cock, rigid and leaking, resting against that smooth midriff, the tip nudging the edge of her navel before he came, hot, thick ropes spilling directly into the dip, filling it, pooling, overflowing in slow white rivulets down the gentle slope of her belly.

The image alone was enough.
He groaned, hips jerking, and released hard, the first climax ripping through him like a discontinuity.

But the picture of his cum inside Meera’s navel, glistening there like liquid proof of ownership, refused to fade.

His hand moved again, almost against his will, and within a minute he was coming a second time, weaker but sharper, the fantasy now complete with her looking down at the mess he had made of her sacred zero and smiling.

He fell asleep sticky and half-dressed, the ceiling fan chopping the darkness into slow, guilty pieces.

Sunday morning arrived grey and lazy.
No college. No orange saree. No Meera.
The disappointment sat on his chest like a failed limit.
He stayed in bed till ten, scrolling through Instagram accounts of random girls just to feel something, anything, that wasn’t her.
Lakshmi banged on the door at 10:37.

"Arjun! Vegetable market, now! Brinjal, ladies’ finger, tomatoes, coriander, everything finished. Go to Russell Market, take auto, come back fast."

He groaned into his pillow.
Market? On a Sunday? When the only curve he wanted to see belonged to a woman who was probably sipping filter coffee in her apartment right now?
But Lakshmi was relentless.

Twenty minutes later he was trudging through the crowded lanes of Russell Market, plastic bags swinging, the stink of fish and overripe jackfruit thick in the November heat.

He haggled half-heartedly for tomatoes, counted change with dead eyes, and was turning to leave when—
There she was.
Ten metres away, at the leafy-greens stall, basket in hand.
Meera.
In the real world. Outside college. On a Sunday.
His heart stopped, restarted, then sprinted.
She wore a simple white sleeveless top—thin cotton, nothing fancy—and dark blue jeans that clung to her legs like they had been tailored by a jealous god.
No saree. No pallu. No blouse sleeves hiding anything.

First time he was seeing her in Western clothes, and God, she was devastating.
The sleeveless top suited her so perfectly it should have been illegal: it followed the soft swell of her breasts without vulgarity, dipped modestly at the neckline, and left her arms completely bare.

Those arms—smooth, even-toned, the colour of fresh creamy milk—had been hidden behind blouse sleeves all these days, and now they moved with casual grace as she lifted a bunch of palak to inspect the leaves.

Even arms, he thought dimly, even her arms looked erotic.
She made biceps and triceps look like poetry.
He stood frozen between the onion carts, bags dangling, afraid to breathe.
Should he go? Say hello? Pretend he hadn’t seen her?
While he dithered, she paid the vendor and moved to the next stall—brinjal, purple and gleaming.

As she walked away from him, the view from behind nearly killed him on the spot.
The jeans hugged the curve of her ass with merciless precision: two perfect, firm hemispheres separated by a single seam that disappeared between them like the negative space in a Reuleaux triangle.

The denim stretched and released with each step, outlining the exact geometry he had worshipped in secret for weeks.

He wanted to press himself against that curve right there in the middle of Russell Market, feel the heat through the fabric, let his palms map the radius and circumference until the numbers dissolved into pure sensation.

Courage, thin and trembling, finally surged.
He dumped his bags at a random shop (“Uncle, keep for two minutes”), wiped sweaty palms on his T-shirt, and walked toward her.
"Ma’am?"

Meera turned, startled, then broke into a surprised smile.
"Arjun! What a coincidence! Shopping for your mom?"
"Y-yes, ma’am. Vegetables ran out."
His voice cracked like a twelve-year-old’s. Brilliant.
She laughed softly. "Same here. I live close by—Shivajinagar, just behind the mosque. Didn’t know you stayed in this area too."
" Frazer Town," he managed. "Five minutes from here."
"Really? So near!"
She shifted her basket to the other hand, and the movement made the sleeveless top ride just a fraction, exposing a thin strip of midriff.
He nearly whimpered.
They chatted—awkward at first, then easier.

She asked about his Sunday study plan (lie: whole day revision), he asked if she cooked (yes, simple stuff, she missed her amma’s fish curry).
Normal words, but every second felt like a derivative exploding.

Then she reached up to adjust a slipping hair clip.
Both arms rose, graceful and unhurried, lifting above her head.
And there they were.

Her armpits.

Smooth, fair, glowing crescents of skin, completely hairless, the delicate hollows catching the morning light like twin parabolas of perfection.

The sleeveless edges framed them perfectly—no stubble, no shadow, just flawless concave curves moving in tandem with her hands, a faint sheen of perspiration making them glisten like polished marble under museum spotlights.

The left one dipped deeper when she tilted, the right one flexed slightly as she pinned the clip, the skin stretching and folding in microscopic waves.
Arjun’s mouth flooded with saliva so fast he had to swallow audibly.

His brain short-circuited: volume of that hollow, surface area, the exact curvature of the axilla as a function of arm angle—he wanted to lick them, trace the salty crease with his tongue, bury his face there until the world narrowed to the scent of her skin and the soft tickle of invisible down.

He stood frozen, eyes wide, bags forgotten somewhere in the onion pile.
Meera lowered her arms, clapped twice in front of his face.

"Arjun? Arjun! Back to Earth to Arjun!"
He jolted. "S-sorry, ma’am! I… suddenly remembered… mom asked for curry leaves also."

She laughed, a little puzzled but kind. "Okay, go get them then. See you tomorrow—don’t forget the chain-rule homework!"

She waved, turned, paid for her brinjals, and hailed an auto.
As the auto pulled away, she glanced back once—caught him staring again, just for a second—and gave a small, curious smile before disappearing into traffic.

Arjun retrieved his abandoned bags in a daze, paid triple for tomatoes because he couldn’t count, and somehow made it home.

The second the bedroom door clicked shut, he was on his knees by the bed, trousers around his ankles, hand moving in frantic rhythm.
He pictured those armpits again—smooth, warm, slightly damp—imagined pressing his tongue into the left hollow while she laughed above him, the faint musk of a Sunday morning mixing with jasmine shampoo.

He came harder than he ever had, hips bucking, a broken groan tearing from his throat as the fantasy dissolved into white-hot release.
Afterward he lay on the floor, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling fan.
Tomorrow was Monday.
Tomorrow she would be back in a saree, sleeves covering those arms again.
But now he knew what lay beneath.he lay staring at the blades' spin, partial sums adding to wholeness: breast, navel, now armpits—fractions of Meera, irreducible, pulling him toward the full integral.
And knowing was a new kind of torment—one that promised to last the entire week.

[shamson9571]

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Episode 7 – L’Hôpital’s Rule

Monday morning cracked open like a new page in Arjun’s private calculus of obsession.

He woke before the alarm, the ceiling fan still spinning lazily above him, the sheet twisted around his legs like a function that had lost its domain. The first thing in his mind was not the sun, not breakfast, not even the IIT dream his mother kept alive with every idli. It was Meera.

More precisely: the memory of her armpits—those two glowing, hairless hollows he had seen yesterday in the market, the faint bead of sweat tracing a parabolic path, the way the skin had stretched and relaxed when she lifted her arms. And beneath that, yesterday’s five-second navel, the orange georgette parting like a curtain at the climax of a play.

He showered quickly, the cold water doing nothing to calm the morning erection that throbbed like a step function the moment he remembered the pinch. While brushing his teeth he stared at his reflection and made silent vows:

Today I get closer.
Today I make her see me.
Today I become more than the quiet boy in the third row.

On the auto ride to college he rehearsed scenarios like a mad mathematician:
Ask a brilliant doubt that makes her eyes light up.
Crack a small joke (not too filmi, not too nerdy).
Volunteer for everything.
Anything that would shrink the distance from thirty feet of classroom to three feet of breath-shared air.

He reached college twenty-five minutes early, sprinted to the notice board near the assembly ground, and there it was—freshly pinned, still smelling of glue:

ST. MARY’S MATHEMATICS OLYMPIAD 2025
Calling all classes 8–12
Registration open till today
Co-ordinator: Ms. Meera Krishnan

His eyes lit up like limit lights on a graphing calculator finally converging.
This was it.

Not just extra classes. Not just doubts.
This was daily practice, small groups, her attention split thirty ways instead of thirty-five.

This was sanctioned proximity.
He practically ran to 12-A, claimed the first bench again, heart hammering louder than the morning assembly drum.

The bell rang.
She walked in.
Back to saree—today a deep bottle-green cotton with a thin gold border that caught the tube light and scattered it like reflected integrals. The blouse was matching green, short-sleeved, modest, but Arjun now knew what lay beneath: arms that could slay in sleeveless lavender, a waist that curved like a French curve, armpits that glowed like hidden constants. She could slay both worlds—saree goddess and jeans mortal—and the realisation made his chest ache with something sharper than lust.

“Good morning, class,” she began, voice soft but carrying. “Before we start improper integrals, a quick announcement.”

She turned to the board, wrote in her beautiful looping hand:
Math Olympiad – Last day for names

“I’ll be co-ordinating this year. It’s a wonderful chance to push yourselves beyond the syllabus. The college will shortlist thirty of you after next week’s screening test. Daily workshops start today, 4 to 5:30 p.m., seminar hall. Anyone interested?”

Hands shot up—Sneha’s, Rahul’s (surprisingly), a few others.
Arjun’s hand was the first and the highest, arm straight as a y-axis, trembling with urgency.

Meera’s eyes found his, a flicker of something—recognition? amusement?—and she smiled the smallest smile.
“Of course, Arjun. I expected you.”

She moved between the benches with a sheet, collecting names and signatures. When she reached him, she bent slightly to take his notebook. The green pallu shifted just enough for a whisper of jasmine to drift down—fresh, intoxicating, mixed with the warmth of her skin. Yesterday’s sleeveless memory collided with today’s scent and Arjun felt his head swim. He inhaled greedily, discreetly, as she hovered inches away. The perfume was new, stronger than usual, laced with something green and alive. With the armpits still burning in his retina, the fragrance became a drug—he could almost taste the hollow beneath her sleeve, imagine burying his face there, breathing her in until his lungs gave out.

“Sign here, please.” Her voice was low, meant only for him.

He scrawled his name, hand shaking, and when she took the pen back her fingers brushed his—accidental, electric. She moved on, but the scent lingered like a differential trailing its function.

For the rest of the period, every time she raised her arm to write high on the board, the green sleeve rode up a fraction. No skin showed, but Arjun stared anyway, memory superimposing yesterday’s naked hollow onto today’s covered one. Each lift of her arm became torture and prayer. He was hard beneath the desk, shifting uncomfortably, the itch unbearable: to press his face into that hidden space, to inhale her whole, to let the jasmine and warm skin drown him. When she absent-mindedly tucked a strand behind her ear, the sleeve lifted again—higher this time—and he nearly groaned aloud.

The bell rang far too soon. As students surged out, Meera raised her voice over the noise:
“Workshop participants—seminar hall, last period today. Don’t be late. We begin properly.”

Arjun floated through the rest of the day. Physics, chemistry, English—meaningless noise. His mind was already in the seminar hall, rehearsing lines, imagining her leaning over his shoulder to check a solution, her breath on his ear, her scent in his lungs.

When the final bell rang he was the first to sprint, bag banging against his hip, corridors blurring. The seminar hall was already filling—rows of blue plastic chairs, maybe a hundred and twenty students from classes 8 to 12, buzzing with nervous energy. Arjun took a seat in the second row, dead centre, pulse racing.

At 4:05 p.m. she walked in—green saree luminous under the tube lights—flanked by Mr. Shetty and Mrs. Nair from the math department. She looked tiny between them, yet commanded the room the moment she stepped to the podium.

A ten-minute introduction followed: stages of the Olympiad, key dates, the glory of representing the college at regionals, nationals. Then the hammer:

“Only thirty of you will be selected after next Monday’s screening test. From tomorrow we meet daily, 4 to 5:30. Work hard, ask doubts, surprise me.”

She distributed thick yellow booklets—past INMO problems, RMO specials—and told them to start.
“Raise your hand if you get stuck. I’ll come around.”

The hall dissolved into rustling pages and scratching pens. Arjun attacked the first ten problems like a man possessed, solving, circling three deliberately tricky ones. When Meera began walking the aisles, he raised his hand high, heart in his throat.

She reached him within minutes, pulled a chair, sat beside him—close enough that her knee almost brushed his under the desk. Jasmine flooded the small space between them.
“Show me,” she said softly.

He slid the booklet across, leaning in just enough to keep her scent in his lungs. One by one he explained his approaches—clever substitutions, symmetry tricks, a sneaky use of complex numbers on a geometry problem. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in appreciation.

“This is… really good, Arjun,” she murmured, voice low so others wouldn’t hear. “I’m impressed. Keep this up and you’re definitely in the thirty. All the very best.”
She placed a hand briefly on his wrist—warm, fleeting—then moved on.

He sat frozen, blood roaring in his ears. She was impressed. She had touched him. The day had peaked; nothing could ruin it.

Or so he thought.

Half an hour later a girl from 11-B in the front row called her over. Meera walked up, bent slightly over the girl’s desk to see the problem, green pallu falling forward. From Arjun’s angle—second row, slightly behind—it was perfection: the curve of her waist suddenly visible, the saree clinging to the dip above her hip, the line of her spine a delicate S under cotton. He forgot to breathe.

She bent further, writing in the girl’s notebook, explaining softly. The pleats at her waist—tucked low as always—began to loosen under the strain, inching downward millimetre by millimetre like a slow limit approaching revelation. Arjun’s eyes locked on the descending tuck, pulse hammering. One more inch, half an inch, and the navel would appear again—that sacred zero he had tasted only in wind and fantasy.

He leaned forward involuntarily, chair creaking, every nerve screaming for the reveal.
And then the door at the back opened.

Priya breezed in, red kurti bright as a warning signal, short hair tousled from the corridor wind. She spotted Meera bent over the desk and grinned like a devil who had found her favourite toy. Without breaking stride she walked straight to Meera, reached out, and—just before pinching—let her index finger trail once, slowly, deliberately, along the exposed curve of Meera’s waist, feeling the softness, the warmth, the perfect dip like a connoisseur testing silk.
Then she pinched—hard enough to startle, not hard enough to truly hurt.

Meera let out a soft, startled “Ah… ouch!”—half laugh, half moan—body jerking upright, pleats snapping back into place an instant before the navel could appear. She turned, cheeks flushed, swatting Priya’s hand away. “Stop it, you mad woman!” she whispered fiercely, but her eyes danced with embarrassed laughter bringing her saree plates back to normal

Priya leaned in, whispered something that only Meera could hear
"Can't let these kids have a free show of your beauty ah !!!"
That made Meera’s blush deepen to scarlet—and sauntered out, throwing a wink over her shoulder.

Arjun saw everything.
The pinch.
The tiny, involuntary moan that escaped Meera’s lips like a musical note pitched exactly at his frequency.
His cock hardened instantly, painfully, trapped beneath the desk, throbbing against rough khaki. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only replay the scene in slow motion: Priya’s finger tracing the waist he worshipped, claiming territory he hadn’t yet touched, drawing that exquisite sound from Meera’s throat.

He stayed till 5:30, but the rest of the workshop was a blur. When the hall finally emptied he walked home in a trance, the pinch-moan loop running endlessly. Dinner was silent; Lakshmi’s questions bounced off him like light off a mirror. As soon as the house slept he locked his door, stripped, and came within thirty seconds—hand moving in frantic recreation of Priya’s trail-then-pinch, imagining his own fingers, his own lips on that waist, drawing that same soft “Ah… ouch” from Meera. The release was violent, almost painful, splattering across his stomach in thick pulses.
But it wasn’t enough.

He did it again twenty minutes later, slower this time, replaying the moan in surround sound, picturing Meera’s flushed face, the way her body had jerked toward Priya’s hand instead of away. Priya’s possessive little caress, the pinch, the moan that sounded almost sexual

Still not enough.
Lying in the dark, sweat cooling, fan clicking overhead, he replayed the scene for the hundredth time (slower now, frame by frame). And then it hit him.

Just before the pinch, Priya hadn’t simply grabbed. She had traced. Her fingertip had glided along the curve of Meera’s waist, slow, deliberate, like a lover confirming softness, admiring the dip, the flare, the warmth of skin, like an artist outlining a masterpiece before signing it. A lover’s gesture disguised as play. Only then had she pinched, playful but possessive.

Arjun’s eyes snapped open in the dark.
Priya wasn’t just teasing a colleague.
Priya was admiring Meera.
Priya wanted Meera.
Maybe Priya saw the same beauty he did.
Maybe Priya wanted the same things he wanted.
Maybe the pinch wasn’t casual at all.

The realisation landed like a new boundary condition, rewriting the entire equation. His obsession suddenly had a rival variable, one who dared to touch what he could only worship from afar.
With that dizzying, jealous, thrilling thought swirling in his head, the soft “Ah… ouch” echoing like a complex residue he would chase for the rest of his life.

Arjun finally drifted into uneasy sleep, the green saree and red kurti tangled in his dreams like two asymptotes that would never meet yet forever chased the same unreachable curve.

[Jattt0077]

Episode 7 – L’Hôpital’s Rule

Monday morning cracked open like a new page in Arjun’s private calculus of obsession.

He woke before the alarm, the ceiling fan still spinning lazily above him, the sheet twisted around his legs like a function that had lost its domain. The first thing in his mind was not the sun, not breakfast, not even the IIT dream his mother kept alive with every idli. It was Meera.

More precisely: the memory of her armpits—those two glowing, hairless hollows he had seen yesterday in the market, the faint bead of sweat tracing a parabolic path, the way the skin had stretched and relaxed when she lifted her arms. And beneath that, yesterday’s five-second navel, the orange georgette parting like a curtain at the climax of a play.

He showered quickly, the cold water doing nothing to calm the morning erection that throbbed like a step function the moment he remembered the pinch. While brushing his teeth he stared at his reflection and made silent vows:

Today I get closer.
Today I make her see me.
Today I become more than the quiet boy in the third row.

On the auto ride to college he rehearsed scenarios like a mad mathematician:
Ask a brilliant doubt that makes her eyes light up.
Crack a small joke (not too filmi, not too nerdy).
Volunteer for everything.
Anything that would shrink the distance from thirty feet of classroom to three feet of breath-shared air.

He reached college twenty-five minutes early, sprinted to the notice board near the assembly ground, and there it was—freshly pinned, still smelling of glue:

ST. MARY’S MATHEMATICS OLYMPIAD 2025
Calling all classes 8–12
Registration open till today
Co-ordinator: Ms. Meera Krishnan

His eyes lit up like limit lights on a graphing calculator finally converging.
This was it.

Not just extra classes. Not just doubts.
This was daily practice, small groups, her attention split thirty ways instead of thirty-five.

This was sanctioned proximity.
He practically ran to 12-A, claimed the first bench again, heart hammering louder than the morning assembly drum.

The bell rang.
She walked in.
Back to saree—today a deep bottle-green cotton with a thin gold border that caught the tube light and scattered it like reflected integrals. The blouse was matching green, short-sleeved, modest, but Arjun now knew what lay beneath: arms that could slay in sleeveless lavender, a waist that curved like a French curve, armpits that glowed like hidden constants. She could slay both worlds—saree goddess and jeans mortal—and the realisation made his chest ache with something sharper than lust.

“Good morning, class,” she began, voice soft but carrying. “Before we start improper integrals, a quick announcement.”

She turned to the board, wrote in her beautiful looping hand:
Math Olympiad – Last day for names

“I’ll be co-ordinating this year. It’s a wonderful chance to push yourselves beyond the syllabus. The college will shortlist thirty of you after next week’s screening test. Daily workshops start today, 4 to 5:30 p.m., seminar hall. Anyone interested?”

Hands shot up—Sneha’s, Rahul’s (surprisingly), a few others.
Arjun’s hand was the first and the highest, arm straight as a y-axis, trembling with urgency.

Meera’s eyes found his, a flicker of something—recognition? amusement?—and she smiled the smallest smile.
“Of course, Arjun. I expected you.”

She moved between the benches with a sheet, collecting names and signatures. When she reached him, she bent slightly to take his notebook. The green pallu shifted just enough for a whisper of jasmine to drift down—fresh, intoxicating, mixed with the warmth of her skin. Yesterday’s sleeveless memory collided with today’s scent and Arjun felt his head swim. He inhaled greedily, discreetly, as she hovered inches away. The perfume was new, stronger than usual, laced with something green and alive. With the armpits still burning in his retina, the fragrance became a drug—he could almost taste the hollow beneath her sleeve, imagine burying his face there, breathing her in until his lungs gave out.

“Sign here, please.” Her voice was low, meant only for him.

He scrawled his name, hand shaking, and when she took the pen back her fingers brushed his—accidental, electric. She moved on, but the scent lingered like a differential trailing its function.

For the rest of the period, every time she raised her arm to write high on the board, the green sleeve rode up a fraction. No skin showed, but Arjun stared anyway, memory superimposing yesterday’s naked hollow onto today’s covered one. Each lift of her arm became torture and prayer. He was hard beneath the desk, shifting uncomfortably, the itch unbearable: to press his face into that hidden space, to inhale her whole, to let the jasmine and warm skin drown him. When she absent-mindedly tucked a strand behind her ear, the sleeve lifted again—higher this time—and he nearly groaned aloud.

The bell rang far too soon. As students surged out, Meera raised her voice over the noise:
“Workshop participants—seminar hall, last period today. Don’t be late. We begin properly.”

Arjun floated through the rest of the day. Physics, chemistry, English—meaningless noise. His mind was already in the seminar hall, rehearsing lines, imagining her leaning over his shoulder to check a solution, her breath on his ear, her scent in his lungs.

When the final bell rang he was the first to sprint, bag banging against his hip, corridors blurring. The seminar hall was already filling—rows of blue plastic chairs, maybe a hundred and twenty students from classes 8 to 12, buzzing with nervous energy. Arjun took a seat in the second row, dead centre, pulse racing.

At 4:05 p.m. she walked in—green saree luminous under the tube lights—flanked by Mr. Shetty and Mrs. Nair from the math department. She looked tiny between them, yet commanded the room the moment she stepped to the podium.

A ten-minute introduction followed: stages of the Olympiad, key dates, the glory of representing the college at regionals, nationals. Then the hammer:

“Only thirty of you will be selected after next Monday’s screening test. From tomorrow we meet daily, 4 to 5:30. Work hard, ask doubts, surprise me.”

She distributed thick yellow booklets—past INMO problems, RMO specials—and told them to start.
“Raise your hand if you get stuck. I’ll come around.”

The hall dissolved into rustling pages and scratching pens. Arjun attacked the first ten problems like a man possessed, solving, circling three deliberately tricky ones. When Meera began walking the aisles, he raised his hand high, heart in his throat.

She reached him within minutes, pulled a chair, sat beside him—close enough that her knee almost brushed his under the desk. Jasmine flooded the small space between them.
“Show me,” she said softly.

He slid the booklet across, leaning in just enough to keep her scent in his lungs. One by one he explained his approaches—clever substitutions, symmetry tricks, a sneaky use of complex numbers on a geometry problem. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in appreciation.

“This is… really good, Arjun,” she murmured, voice low so others wouldn’t hear. “I’m impressed. Keep this up and you’re definitely in the thirty. All the very best.”
She placed a hand briefly on his wrist—warm, fleeting—then moved on.

He sat frozen, blood roaring in his ears. She was impressed. She had touched him. The day had peaked; nothing could ruin it.

Or so he thought.

Half an hour later a girl from 11-B in the front row called her over. Meera walked up, bent slightly over the girl’s desk to see the problem, green pallu falling forward. From Arjun’s angle—second row, slightly behind—it was perfection: the curve of her waist suddenly visible, the saree clinging to the dip above her hip, the line of her spine a delicate S under cotton. He forgot to breathe.

She bent further, writing in the girl’s notebook, explaining softly. The pleats at her waist—tucked low as always—began to loosen under the strain, inching downward millimetre by millimetre like a slow limit approaching revelation. Arjun’s eyes locked on the descending tuck, pulse hammering. One more inch, half an inch, and the navel would appear again—that sacred zero he had tasted only in wind and fantasy.

He leaned forward involuntarily, chair creaking, every nerve screaming for the reveal.
And then the door at the back opened.

Priya breezed in, red kurti bright as a warning signal, short hair tousled from the corridor wind. She spotted Meera bent over the desk and grinned like a devil who had found her favourite toy. Without breaking stride she walked straight to Meera, reached out, and—just before pinching—let her index finger trail once, slowly, deliberately, along the exposed curve of Meera’s waist, feeling the softness, the warmth, the perfect dip like a connoisseur testing silk.
Then she pinched—hard enough to startle, not hard enough to truly hurt.

Meera let out a soft, startled “Ah… ouch!”—half laugh, half moan—body jerking upright, pleats snapping back into place an instant before the navel could appear. She turned, cheeks flushed, swatting Priya’s hand away. “Stop it, you mad woman!” she whispered fiercely, but her eyes danced with embarrassed laughter bringing her saree plates back to normal

Priya leaned in, whispered something that only Meera could hear
"Can't let these kids have a free show of your beauty ah !!!"
That made Meera’s blush deepen to scarlet—and sauntered out, throwing a wink over her shoulder.

Arjun saw everything.
The pinch.
The tiny, involuntary moan that escaped Meera’s lips like a musical note pitched exactly at his frequency.
His cock hardened instantly, painfully, trapped beneath the desk, throbbing against rough khaki. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only replay the scene in slow motion: Priya’s finger tracing the waist he worshipped, claiming territory he hadn’t yet touched, drawing that exquisite sound from Meera’s throat.

He stayed till 5:30, but the rest of the workshop was a blur. When the hall finally emptied he walked home in a trance, the pinch-moan loop running endlessly. Dinner was silent; Lakshmi’s questions bounced off him like light off a mirror. As soon as the house slept he locked his door, stripped, and came within thirty seconds—hand moving in frantic recreation of Priya’s trail-then-pinch, imagining his own fingers, his own lips on that waist, drawing that same soft “Ah… ouch” from Meera. The release was violent, almost painful, splattering across his stomach in thick pulses.
But it wasn’t enough.

He did it again twenty minutes later, slower this time, replaying the moan in surround sound, picturing Meera’s flushed face, the way her body had jerked toward Priya’s hand instead of away. Priya’s possessive little caress, the pinch, the moan that sounded almost sexual

Still not enough.
Lying in the dark, sweat cooling, fan clicking overhead, he replayed the scene for the hundredth time (slower now, frame by frame). And then it hit him.

Just before the pinch, Priya hadn’t simply grabbed. She had traced. Her fingertip had glided along the curve of Meera’s waist, slow, deliberate, like a lover confirming softness, admiring the dip, the flare, the warmth of skin, like an artist outlining a masterpiece before signing it. A lover’s gesture disguised as play. Only then had she pinched, playful but possessive.

Arjun’s eyes snapped open in the dark.
Priya wasn’t just teasing a colleague.
Priya was admiring Meera.
Priya wanted Meera.
Maybe Priya saw the same beauty he did.
Maybe Priya wanted the same things he wanted.
Maybe the pinch wasn’t casual at all.

The realisation landed like a new boundary condition, rewriting the entire equation. His obsession suddenly had a rival variable, one who dared to touch what he could only worship from afar.
With that dizzying, jealous, thrilling thought swirling in his head, the soft “Ah… ouch” echoing like a complex residue he would chase for the rest of his life.

Arjun finally drifted into uneasy sleep, the green saree and red kurti tangled in his dreams like two asymptotes that would never meet yet forever chased the same unreachable curve.

[Jattt0077]

Update?

[Jattt0077]

Update?

[shamson9571]

Episode 8 – Partial Fractions

Arjun woke with Priya’s finger burned into his mind.
Not the pinch itself (though that still throbbed in his blood), but the half-second before it: the slow, deliberate trail of her index finger along the curve of Meera’s waist, as if she were tracing a favourite line of poetry.
He lay staring at the fan blades, heart thudding.

Was it just teasing?
Or was Priya… feeling something more?
The thought made him cold, then hot, then cold again.
Jealousy tasted metallic on his tongue.
He forced himself to breathe.

No. They’re friends. Women do that. Priya does that with everyone.
He repeated it like a mantra until the panic loosened its grip.
Friendly. Just friendly.
By the time he brushed his teeth, he had buried the suspicion under layers of denial and teenage pragmatism.
Today was another day with Meera. That was enough.

By the time he got ready, Lakshmi had the table set—upma steaming in a steel bowl, banana leaves fanned out with chutney and sambar, the air thick with mustard tadka.

"Beta, sit sit. Upma fresh, no lumps today—your Appa complained yesterday." She ladled a generous portion, her cotton nightie hitched at the knees, bangles jangling like punctuation. Arjun dropped into the chair, fork diving in, the semolina soft and spiced on his tongue.

Lakshmi watched him over her chai tumbler, steam curling like question marks. "Olympiad going good? You came home yesterday like a ghost—eyes far away, plate half-empty. That new ma'am pushing too hard?"

He swallowed, forcing a smile around the bite. "No, Amma. Meera ma'am is... good. Explains everything clear. Workshop yesterday—solved some tough ones. Screening test next week, top thirty only."

Her eyes lit up, the tumbler pausing mid-sip. "Meera ma'am? Sounds strict. But good teachers are like that—push you till you fly. Remember your 10th PT sir? Made you run till you hated him, then loved him for the marks."

She reached across, pinching his cheek lightly—familial, innocent, a far cry from Priya's loaded touch. "You'll top it, na? IIT gates waiting. What problems today—derivatives again?"

Arjun nodded, warmth spreading at her pride, the knot in his gut loosening further. "Partial fractions now. Breaking big equations into small ones. Like... like life, Amma. Pieces that fit back perfect."

She laughed, the sound rich as coconut milk. "Philosophy from maths! Eat fast, auto waiting. And beta—smile more. Girls notice happy faces, not brooding poets."
He rolled his eyes, but the words stuck—a reminder to surface from his depths.

Breakfast done, bag slung, he kissed her forehead and dashed out, the auto's sputter pulling him toward college. Priya's finger faded to a footnote; today was Meera's—questions queued, intellect sharpened.

The ride blurred: Hosur Road's snarl, vendors hawking idlis from carts, the faint diesel tang. Arjun pulled out his math notebook, ignoring the physics recap Vikram had texted.

Chemistry first period—beakers bubbling, Mr. Rao droning on atomic radii—but Arjun's ears tuned out, eyes on the margins where he'd jotted Olympiad prep: quadratic residues, Diophantine approximations. He underlined a symmetry trick, murmuring it under his breath, imagining Meera's nod, her "Well done, Arjun" like a solved proof.

Physics second: D'Souza's vectors, forces in equilibrium. Arjun sketched force diagrams but saw only curves—breasts as opposing tensions, waist as resultant pull. The bell saved him from a pop quiz; he packed fast, heart accelerating like a limit to class three.

Math period. The door clicked open.
Meera entered, peach chiffon whispering like a secret shared with silk. The saree was tucked modestly high today—no daring low dbang, pleats fanned precise and proper, the pallu pinned secure over a half-sleeve blouse that reached her elbows, modest as a theorem's boundary conditions. Yet the peach glowed against her skin, warm as ripening custard apple, the half-sleeves baring forearms smooth and even-toned, a tease of the arms he'd worshipped in market jeans. Her bun was looser, strands curling at her nape like stray roots seeking soil. Arjun's gaze catalogued: no slips, no shifts—just elegant containment, the chiffon clinging subtly to hips and waist, a promise wrapped in propriety.

"Good morning, class," she said, voice steady as the real axis. "Partial fractions. Decomposing the complex into sums of simplicity—because some expressions are too entangled to integrate directly."

She turned to the board, chalk whispering: (Ax + B)/(x² + x + 1) = ? The class leaned in—Sneha's pen poised, Rahul actually alert. Meera explained: poles, residues, the art of cancellation. "Think of it as breaking a whole into parts that play nice together. The denominator factors; the numerator follows suit."

Arjun heard almost nothing of the actual explanation.
Every concept became her.

- “We decompose a complicated rational function into simpler parts…”
→ *I have already decomposed you, ma’am: one part breast, one part navel, one part armpit, one part waist, one part back… and the sum is still infinite.*

- “The goal is to cancel common factors and reduce…”
→ *I want to cancel the distance between us until the denominator is zero and we collide.*

- “Sometimes you need to assume the form A/(x-a) + B/(x-b) + …”
→ *A for Armpit, B for Back, C for the Curve of your hip when you bend…*

Halfway through, he raised his hand—third question queued, but this one burning. "Ma'am, for irreducible quadratics, if the numerator's degree matches—can we use long division first, then partials? Like decomposing a rational into polynomial plus proper fraction?"

Meera paused, chalk mid-air, wet-earth eyes finding his. A beat—appreciative, curious—then she smiled, that small private curve. "Excellent point, Arjun. Yes—division first simplifies. Show us on the board?"

He stood, legs steady despite the throb in his veins, and walked to the front—her jasmine wafting as he passed, intoxicating as ever. Chalk in hand, he sketched: dividend into divisor, quotient dropping clean, remainder proper for partials. The class watched; Vikram whistled low. Meera stood beside him, close enough for her sleeve to brush his elbow—accidental fire.

"See?" he finished, stepping back. "Now the fractions are tame."

She nodded, taking the chalk, adding her flourish.
"Precisely. You're ahead of the curve, Arjun—most wait till JEE mocks for this." Her voice held warmth, a nod only for him. In her mind, unvoiced: Special, this one. Quiet storm—eyes sharp, questions deeper than his years. IIT material, yes, but something more... attuned.

The class murmured approvals; Arjun returned to his seat buoyant, her praise a tangent kissing his ego at exactly one point. More questions followed—his on repeated linear factors, hers patient, probing:
"Why assume A for the constant term?" "To balance coefficients, ma'am—like equilibrium in vectors." Back-and-forth, a duet: her coastal lilt weaving with his earnest clip, the room fading to their rhythm. By bell, she capped the chalk with a lingering look his way. "Keep it up."

He floated through lunch—Maggi half-eaten, Vikram's jabs ignored—mind on the workshop, questions prepped like arrows.

Lunch break brought chaos.
A new notice fluttered on the board:

ANNUAL DAY CULTURAL FEST – 18th January
Special Highlight: Teachers’ Drama
Theme: Family Comedy-Drama
Auditions & rehearsals start next week!

The classroom erupted—12-A a sudden agora.
Rahul punched the air: "Teachers acting? D'Souza as villain? I'll pay to see!"
Sneha giggled: "Mrs. Nair as heroine? Her sari-twirls would steal the show."
Vikram leaned back, grinning: "Bet Ramakrishna sir does comedy—'Physics of Laughter' or some bakwas." Laughter rippled;
even Sneha-from-12-B peeked in: "Hope it's not another Bible play. Something fun—romance? Mystery?"

Arjun joined the buzz half-heartedly, fork twirling cold dosa. But his thoughts revolved around Meera: Will she participate? On stage, under lights—saree swirling, voice carrying lines of love or loss? The image bloomed: her as heroine, peach chiffon spotlit, waist curving in dramatic pose. Jealousy flickered—other eyes on her—but thrill overrode: a chance to see her anew, unravelled.

The final bell jolted him; he bolted to the seminar hall, claiming second-row prime. The room filled—120 juniors and seniors, murmurs like white noise. Meera entered at 4 sharp, peach glowing, booklets in arm.
"Quick recap yesterday," she said, distributing yellow stacks. "Practice these—INMO-level. Doubts to me."

Arjun dove in, pen flying: inequalities, number theory, his mind a machine honed to top the screening, to earn her undivided gaze. Three problems cracked; two questions queued—one on Wilson's Theorem, elegant proof via factorials; another on elliptic curves, a stretch but showy. Ask soon, he thought, glancing her way—she circled the aisles, patient with a 9th-grader's algebra snag.

Just as he raised his hand, the door creaked. Priya—red kurti vivid as a stop sign—slipped in, beckoning Meera with a crooked finger. "Two minutes, wizard—door talk."

Meera excused herself, peach chiffon swaying as she rose. Arjun's hand lowered, curiosity spiking like a Dirac delta. What now? He waited a beat, then stood

"Ma'am, bathroom quick"—slipping out, veering to the staircase where a half-wall separated hall from steps, shadows cloaking him like a stealth variable.

Their voices carried, low but clear—Priya's animated lilt, Meera's soft counter.
"...drama for Annual Day, Meera! Teachers only—huge buzz. Mrs. Nair's already in as mother-in-law, that dramatic old bat. Theme's family saga—saas-bahu twists with modern spice. Four males: Shetty as the hapless son, D'Souza as grumpy dad, two more TBD. Females: two big ones—wife and MIL. You're perfect for wife. That grace, that quiet fire—audience will eat it up."

Meera's laugh, hesitant: "Priya, me? Acting? I'm the board-and-chalk type. Last play in college—froze mid-line, forgot 'To be or not to be' in Kannada."

"Exactly! That's charm. And listen—males are short; I'm stepping in as husband. Bold, na? You as demure wife, me as the cheeky hubby—chemistry gold. Imagine: me dragging you to the terrace scene, whispering 'Come, let's fight under the stars.' You'll slay."

A pause—Arjun pictured Meera's flush, peach deepening. "Husband? Priya, I've not said yes. And you—husband already? Slow down, your script's running ahead."

Priya's chuckle, warm and wheedling: "Arre, I know you, Meera. That shy 'no' is your 'maybe.' Think: stage lights on your saree, lines that let you feel—love, arguments, that slow-burn reconciliation. Plus, it's fun! Nair aunty hamming the MIL—'Beta, eat more!'—you'll crack up mid-scene. And me as husband? I'll make it easy—carry your dialogues if you blank, feed you cues like coffee shots. Say yes, na? For me?"

Meera sighed, half-amused, half-yielding: "You're impossible. The husband bit—too funny. What if I trip on pleats? Or forget the saas-bahu drama—I'm Udupi girl, not TV serial star."

"Precisely why you'll shine—real, not rehearsed. And pleats? I'll pin them myself. Come on, Meera. We've got a month; rehearsals start next week. Imagine the applause—Father Mathias clapping like a seal. Do it for the kids—they worship you already."

Another beat—Arjun's nails dug into his palm, jealousy coiling: Priya as husband, whispering lines, touching in "rehearsal"? Morning doubts resurfaced— that finger-trail no accident, this pitch laced with want.

"Fine," Meera relented, voice light. "I'll think. But no promises on the husband-wife sparks—you're trouble enough off-stage."

Priya whooped softly: "That's my girl! Knew you'd cave. Now, I've 9th-grade papers screaming—corrections till midnight. Staff room later?"

Meera: "After Olympiad—my stack's waiting too. Go, dramatic hubby."

Priya's laugh faded down the corridor; Meera returned to the hall, peach unruffled.
Arjun slipped back, heart a chaotic oscillator—vibrating between thrill (Meera on stage, unveiled) and turmoil (Priya as husband, the "chemistry" taunt a knife-twist).

Arjun sat frozen, pen hovering above the page.

Priya as Meera’s husband.
Priya touching her on stage, holding her hand, maybe even a fake hug or a playful slap on the cheek in front of the whole college.
Priya whispering lines into Meera’s ear during rehearsals, late evenings, empty classrooms, doors closed.

The morning doubt he had buried so carefully rose again like an improper integral that refused to converge.
*Was the waist pinch really just friendship?*
*Or is Priya…*

He couldn’t finish the thought.

The rest of the workshop passed in a fog. He never asked his prepared questions. Meera walked past his bench once, paused, touched his shoulder lightly.
“Everything okay, Arjun? You look lost.”
He managed a nod, a strangled “Yes ma’am,” and she moved on, peach saree whispering secrets he no longer felt entitled to hear.

5:30 p.m. Bell. Chairs scbangd. Students left in noisy streams.
Arjun packed slowly, mind looping the same reel:
Priya’s finger on Meera’s waist.
Priya saying “my wife” with that half-serious smile.
Meera laughing, not angry, not uncomfortable, just… warm.

He walked home under streetlights that flickered on one by one, the peach saree burned behind his eyelids, now overwritten by Priya’s red kurti and possessive grin.
Jealousy, confusion, longing, fear, all tangled into a single improper fraction he couldn’t reduce.

At the dinner table Lakshmi asked why he was so quiet.
He answered with a shrug and a spoon pushing rice around the plate like an unsolved equation.

That night he didn’t touch himself.
He lay in the dark, fan clicking overhead, staring at the ceiling and listening to his own heartbeat spell out the same unsolvable question over

If Priya becomes Meera’s husband on stage…
who does that leave for him off stage?

[shamson9571]

Episode 8 – Partial Fractions (Priya’s Side)

The staff-room fan spun like a tired metronome, pushing the same warm air around in circles.
Priya Menon sat sideways on her chair, one leg tucked beneath her, marking 9th-standard essays with a red pen that bled more than it corrected. Her short hair stuck to her neck in the humidity; the red cotton kurti clung to her back in damp patches.
Across the room, Meera Krishnan was bent over a stack of Olympiad answer sheets, peach saree glowing under the tube light like a soft gradient, the pallu slipping just enough to reveal the delicate line where blouse met skin.

Priya’s pen slowed.

She had noticed Meera the very first day (who hadn’t?), but noticing and watching were different things.
The first was the way every boy in 12-A suddenly discovered calculus.
The second was quieter, private, and had nothing to do with teenage hormones.

It had started with small, harmless things.

The way Meera’s fingers held chalk (long, careful, almost reverent).
The way she laughed at Priya’s terrible Shakespeare puns, head thrown back, throat exposed for a fraction of a second, the sound bright and unguarded.
The way her voice softened when she said “good question” to a student, like she genuinely meant it, like every mind in the room mattered.

Then came the pinch in the seminar hall.

Priya hadn’t planned it. She had walked in to drop off a notice, seen Meera bent over that 11th-grade girl’s desk, the green saree stretched tight across her waist, the pleats loosening just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above the petticoat.
Something in Priya’s chest had twisted (not lust exactly, though there was heat; more like recognition).

That curve was unfair. Not vulgar. Just… perfectly drawn. A line someone had taken centuries to get right.

So she had done what she always did when words failed: teased.
Walked up, let her fingertip graze the exposed waist first (one slow, deliberate second, feeling the warmth, the impossible softness, the faint tremor under her touch), then pinched, quick and playful, to cover the intimacy of that first stroke.

Meera’s startled “Ah… ouch!” had gone straight between Priya’s legs.

She had left laughing, tossing a filthy whisper over her shoulder (“Careful, darling, or the whole college will know how ticklish you are right here”), but the laugh had been shaky.
Because the truth was messier.

Priya wanted.

Not just to tease.
She wanted to watch Meera come undone slowly (not in a classroom, not in a hurry), wanted to trace every inch of that waist with her mouth, wanted to feel the exact moment Meera realised the pinch wasn’t a joke anymore.
She wanted the quiet after, when Meera’s breath would even out against her shoulder and the jasmine in her hair would mix with Priya’s own coconut oil.

She had never said it aloud.
She might never.

Because Meera was shy, proper, the kind of woman who blushed at innuendo and still said “please” to the canteen boy.
Because Priya was loud, sarcastic, the “fun” teacher who made dick jokes in the staff room and pretended she didn’t care who heard.
Because the gap between them felt like the difference between a quadratic and a transcendental (beautiful, but impossible to reconcile without breaking something).

So Priya settled for partial fractions.

A graze here.
A pinch there.
A whispered “You’re killing me in that colour” when no one was listening.
Each one a term in an infinite series that added up to something she could almost, almost touch.

Today, watching Meera mark papers, Priya’s pen had stopped moving entirely.
The peach saree had slipped again while Meera reached for a stapler; the side of her waist curved like the inside of a conch shell, the skin there lighter where the sun never reached.
Priya’s mouth went dry.

She imagined walking over, pressing her lips to that exact spot, feeling Meera’s sharp inhale, the way her body would arch first in surprise, then in surrender.
She imagined Meera’s hand coming up (not to push her away, but to thread fingers through Priya’s short hair and hold her there).

The fantasy lasted three seconds.
Then Mrs. Nair walked in asking for correction fluid, and the moment shattered.

Priya exhaled, slow and shaky, and went back to her essays.
She wrote “Excellent imagery!” on a paper that deserved a C at best.

Some hungers, she thought, you learn to live with in pieces.
You decompose them, reduce them to manageable fractions, and hope one day the sum surprises you.

For now, the graze-and-pinch would have to be enough.

But god, she wanted the whole.

[Saj890]

Very nice

[shamson9571]

Hello friends

I would like to have your opinion on the story so far and the direction it would take further

I envisioned two versions which would take story forward

1. Explore more on the dynamic between Meera and Priya and Arjun watching it
2. Explore more on Arjun and Meera dynamic and bring them closer and have Priya as a passing cloud

Any other ideas you have, you are welcome to share

Appreciate your feedback!

[roy.rahul6996b]

Would prefer #2
Or #3, where Arjun scores one, and uses her to get the other teacher

[Jattt0077]

[quote pid='6089730' dateline='1764682002']
2. Explore more on Arjun and Meera dynamic and bring them closer and have Priya as a passing cloud


[/quote]

[snehasis]

2 please

[shamson9571]

Thanks for your feedback!

[readersp]

Please give update.. you write so well...