21-06-2025, 09:57 PM
Sharada's fingers trembled as she typed the message to Vishnu, guilt and relief battling for dominance within her chest. "It's done," she wrote, the words stark and damning on her phone screen. "She has them. God help me." She pressed send before she could reconsider, before the full weight of her betrayal could stop her. The response came almost immediately, as if Vishnu had been waiting with his phone in hand: "Good work. Now we wait." Something in the speed of his reply, the cold efficiency of it, made Sharada's stomach turn. What had she done? What had she set in motion?
Across town, Devika approached her apartment building, the brown envelope burning like a brand against her thigh through the thin fabric of her satchel. The security booth came into view, and with it, Ramlal's weathered face. Their eyes met briefly—his lighting up with recognition, with that particular warmth he reserved only for her—and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. The memory of his hands on her body, measuring, touching, nearly worshipping, flashed unbidden through her mind.
"Good evening, Devika," he called, rising slightly from his chair with a deference that belied the intimacy they had shared.
She managed a small smile but couldn't bring herself to stop. "Evening, Ramlal-ji," she replied, hurrying past him toward the stairwell, her heart racing with something that wasn't quite fear, wasn't quite anticipation, but some strange cocktail of the two.
Ramlal watched her go, his eyes drawn inexorably to the gentle sway of her hips beneath her saree. The fabric had shifted as she walked, revealing a glimpse of her hip fold—that tender curve where thigh met hip—through the thin material of her petticoat. His mouth went dry at the sight, his body responding with an immediacy that surprised him despite his age. She noticed his gaze, he was certain of it—there was a slight hitch in her step, a momentary pause—but she didn't turn back, didn't acknowledge it beyond a barely perceptible quickening of her pace.
"She feels it too," he thought, settling back into his chair with a heavy sigh. "Whatever passed between us, she hasn't forgotten."
Inside her apartment, Devika shed her work clothes like a snake shedding its skin, desperate to be free of the constraints that had bound her all day. She stood under the shower, letting water cascade over her body, washing away the chalk dust from the classroom, the lingering scent of the college's disinfectant, the weight of propriety she carried like armor. But it couldn't wash away the knowledge of what lay in her satchel, waiting, promising something she hadn't allowed herself to want.
Saturday dawned bright and clear, a day without obligations stretching before her like an empty canvas. Devika moved through her morning rituals with mechanical precision—tea, meditation, a light breakfast—but an undercurrent of restlessness pulsed beneath her skin. With no lectures to prepare, no students to teach, the hours yawned wide and vacant.
She tried watching television, flipping through channels with increasing disinterest. She attempted to read, but the words on the page refused to coalesce into meaning, her mind wandering away from the text like a disobedient child. By evening, she had cleaned her already immaculate apartment, reorganized her bookshelves, and called her parents for their weekly check-in, careful to keep her voice steady, to betray nothing of the turmoil that churned within her.
As night settled over Pune, Devika found herself sitting on her sofa, staring at the dark screen of her television, the silence of her apartment pressing against her eardrums like cotton wool. Her mind drifted to the envelope, still tucked in her satchel where she had left it the day before.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm a grown woman. A professor of biology. I teach human reproduction without blushing." Yet still she hesitated, her breath shallow in her chest.
What would her mother think? What would her colleagues say if they knew she was considering watching pornography? What would her students—Vishnu and Pathan with their knowing smirks, their predatory eyes—think of their proper professor then?
"They would never know," she told herself. "No one would ever know."
Except Sharada, who had given her the DVDs. Sharada, who had admitted to watching such things herself. Sharada, who had not judged her for wanting to explore this unknown territory.
"It's not a sin to understand one's own body," Devika murmured, the words sounding strange on her tongue. "It's not wrong to want... pleasure."
Decision made, she rose from the sofa, moving with sudden purpose toward her satchel. The envelope slid free easily, its contents rattling slightly as she extracted it. Two unmarked DVDs nestled inside, their blank surfaces giving no hint of what they contained.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she crossed to her television, hands shaking as she inserted the first disc into the player. She locked her apartment door—an unnecessary precaution at this hour, but it made her feel safer, more contained. The lights went off next, leaving only the dim glow of her small table lamp to illuminate the room. She settled back onto the sofa, remote clutched in her trembling hand.
"Just press play," she told herself. "Just watch. You don't have to like it. You don't have to do anything."
The screen flickered to life, and Devika drew her knees up to her chest, a defensive posture against what might come. The video began without preamble, without the production values or narrative setup she had somehow expected. Just a simple room, a sofa not unlike her own, and an older man—perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and weathered skin—reading a newspaper.
Something in the man's profile, the slope of his shoulders, reminded her of Ramlal. The thought sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, a warmth blooming low in her abdomen.
A woman entered the frame from what appeared to be a kitchen doorway, dressed in shorts that exposed long, tanned legs and a tank top that clung to full breasts. She moved with deliberate sensuality, her eyes fixed on the older man with an intensity that made Devika shift on her sofa, suddenly aware of the fabric of her saree against her skin.
The woman approached the man from behind, sliding her hands over his shoulders, bending to whisper something in his ear. He ignored her, eyes fixed on his newspaper. Undeterred, she circled the sofa, plucked the paper from his hands, and before he could protest, straddled his lap.
"What are you—" the man began, but the woman silenced him with her mouth, pressing her lips to his with a hunger that startled Devika.
This was no chaste peck, no dry meeting of closed lips like the perfunctory kisses she had exchanged with Anand in their later years. This was devouring, consuming, a wet and desperate thing that made Devika's own lips part in unconscious mimicry.
The man's initial resistance melted away, his hands coming up to frame the woman's face, to tangle in her hair as their kiss deepened. Devika watched, transfixed, as their tongues became visible, sliding against each other, tasting, exploring. They broke apart only to gasp for air before diving back in, their mouths locked in what seemed an endless dance of hunger and satisfaction.
"Do people really kiss like that?" Devika whispered to herself, her finger tracing the outline of her own lower lip. She had never been kissed with such abandon, such raw desire. Anand's kisses had been brief, utilitarian—a prelude to the main event, which itself had been brief and unsatisfying.
On screen, the kiss continued, the man's hands sliding down to cup the woman's breasts through her thin top. She moaned into his mouth, arching her back to press more firmly into his touch. In one fluid motion, she reached down, grabbed the hem of her top, and pulled it over her head, revealing a lacy bra that barely contained her generous curves.
The man broke their kiss to stare at her exposed flesh, hunger evident in his eyes. The woman reached behind herself, unclasping her bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away to reveal full, heavy breasts with dark nipples already puckered with arousal.
Devika felt an answering tightness in her own nipples, a heaviness in her breasts that couldn't be ignored. Without conscious thought, her hand drifted up to cup herself through the fabric of her blouse, her palm pressing against the hardened peak she found there.
On screen, the couple had resumed kissing, the woman now gloriously topless, her bare breasts pressed against the man's clothed chest. Their tongues were visible again, sliding against each other in a wet, messy dance that went on and on, far longer than Devika would have thought possible or desirable. Yet she found herself leaning forward, her breathing shallow, her lips parted as if to receive a phantom kiss.
The man's hands came up to cup the woman's bare breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in circles that made her gasp and writhe against him. Then he bent his head, replacing his fingers with his mouth, drawing one dark peak between his lips and sucking hard.
"Oh," Devika breathed, the sound escaping without her permission. Heat surged between her thighs, a damp warmth she hadn't felt in far too long. She pressed her legs together, seeking pressure, relief, but it only intensified the ache.
The man on screen moved from one breast to the other, lavishing equal attention on each nipple, licking, sucking, even gently biting until the woman was moaning continuously, her head thrown back in abandon. Devika had never experienced such attention to her breasts—Anand had touched them briefly, mechanically, never lingering, never exploring what might bring her pleasure.
"Is that what it feels like?" she whispered to the darkness, her hand still cupping her breast, her thumb now mimicking the circular motion she had seen on screen.
The couple continued their exploration, the woman eventually sliding from the man's lap to kneel between his legs. She reached for his belt, unfastening it with eager fingers, then drew down his zipper. The man lifted his hips to help as she tugged his pants and underwear down in one motion, revealing his penis—already semi-erect, larger than Devika had expected, especially for a man of his age.
Devika felt her face flush hot with embarrassment, her hand flying to cover her eyes. But curiosity won out, and she peeked between her fingers, unable to look away as the woman wrapped her hand around the man's shaft, stroking slowly until it grew fully hard.
The image of Ramlal flashed unbidden through Devika's mind—the pressure of his arousal against her back as he measured her, the heat of his breath on her neck, the tremor in his hands as they skimmed her skin. Was he built like this man? Would he grow hard at her touch, her kiss?
"What am I thinking?" she scolded herself, but the thought refused to leave, superimposing Ramlal's face over the actor's, her own body in place of the woman's.
On screen, the woman bent lower, her intentions clear. Devika's breath caught in her throat as she watched the woman's tongue extend, licking a slow path from base to tip of the man's penis. The man groaned, his hand coming to rest on the woman's head, not pushing, just anchoring himself to her as she took him into her mouth.
"Oh my god," Devika breathed, shock and arousal warring within her. She had never done this, had never even considered it. Had known, intellectually, that such acts existed, but had filed them away in the category of things "decent women" didn't do.
Yet here was this woman, her mouth sliding up and down the man's shaft with obvious enjoyment, drawing moans from him that spoke of intense pleasure. And more shocking still was Devika's own response—the surge of wetness between her thighs, the unconscious licking of her lips, the way her mouth had fallen open, mimicking the act she was witnessing.
Her hand slid down from her breast, over the flat plane of her stomach, coming to rest at the juncture of her thighs. The thin fabric of her saree was a barrier, unwelcome now when she craved direct contact. Without allowing herself time to reconsider, Devika stood, unwrapping her saree with practiced movements, letting the yards of fabric pool at her feet.
She settled back onto the sofa clad only in her petticoat and blouse, her hand immediately seeking the warmth between her legs. The dampness there shocked her—she was wetter than she could ever remember being, certainly wetter than Anand had ever made her. Through the thin cotton of her panties, she found her clitoris, circling it with tentative fingers.
"Oh," she gasped, the pleasure sharper, more immediate than she had expected. On screen, the woman continued her oral ministrations, now taking the man's testicles into her mouth, rolling them with her tongue while her hand stroked his shaft.
Devika's fingers moved faster, the pleasure building, but the fabric of her panties chafed, limiting her sensation. Again, she stood, this time hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and drawing them down to her calves, loosening the ties of her petticoat so it hung precariously on her hips.
She sat again, spreading her legs without shame now, her fingers finding her slick folds, exploring with growing confidence. This was her body, her pleasure. Why had she denied herself for so long?
On screen, the dynamic had shifted. The woman was now naked, her legs spread wide as the man knelt between them. To Devika's shock, he lowered his head, pressing his mouth to the woman's sex. The woman's back arched off the sofa, her hands flying to tangle in the man's silver hair, holding him against her.
"Oh, fuck," Devika whispered, the profanity strange and thrilling on her tongue. "Is that—do people—" She couldn't complete the thought, too overwhelmed by the image before her and the pleasure building between her own thighs.
Anand had never done this, had never even suggested it. Their lovemaking had been perfunctory at best—a few kisses, some cursory touching, then penetration that never lasted long enough for her to find release. She had accepted this as normal, as the way things were between husband and wife.
Now, watching this older man devour the woman with obvious enthusiasm, hearing the woman's cries of pleasure, Devika realized how much she had been denied, how much she had denied herself.
Her fingers moved with increased urgency, one sliding inside while her thumb maintained pressure on her clitoris. She moaned, the sound echoing in her empty apartment, louder than she intended but impossible to suppress.
Outside, Ramlal jerked awake in his chair at the security booth, startled by a sound he couldn't immediately place. The night was quiet, the apartment complex still, but something had disturbed his light doze. He glanced around, alert for any sign of trouble, when he noticed a flickering light coming from Devika's window. The curtains were drawn but not completely closed, a sliver of illumination spilling out into the darkness.
Concern furrowed his brow—it was late, past midnight, and the light seemed unsteady, like a television rather than a lamp. Was she unwell? Unable to sleep? The memory of their encounter in her bedroom haunted him still, the feel of her skin beneath his hands, the way she had leaned into his touch before pulling away.
Driven by worry or perhaps by something more selfish, more primal, Ramlal left his post, climbing the stairs to the second floor with a stealth that belied his age. He approached her door, intending to knock, to check on her, but another sound stopped him in his tracks—a moan, unmistakably female, unmistakably Devika.
His breath caught in his throat. Was she with someone? Had she invited a man to her apartment? The thought sent a stab of jealousy through him, sharp and unexpected. But no, he had seen no one enter her flat that evening, and he had been at his post until just moments ago.
Drawn by curiosity he couldn't deny, Ramlal moved to her window, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. What he saw froze him in place, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Devika sat on her sofa, saree pooled on the floor at her feet, panties tangled around her calves, petticoat loose at her hips. Her legs were spread wide, one hand working between them with rhythmic purpose, the other squeezing her breast through her blouse. Her head was thrown back, lips parted, eyes fixed on the television screen where an explicit scene played out—an older man, not unlike himself, pleasuring a woman with his mouth.
"My god," Ramlal whispered, his body responding instantly to the sight before him. This was Devika as he had never seen her—uninhibited, raw, abandoned to pleasure. And she was watching a film featuring a man who could have been his brother, with a woman near her own age.
Was it coincidence? Or had she chosen this particular film because it reminded her of him, of what had almost happened between them?
The thought sent blood rushing to his groin, his penis hardening with an urgency he hadn't felt in years. Without conscious decision, his hand moved to his fly, unzipping quietly, freeing himself from the confines of his uniform trousers.
Inside, unaware of her audience, Devika's pleasure mounted. On screen, the couple had moved to penetration, the man entering the woman in a position she had never tried—her on her back at the edge of the sofa, him standing, holding her legs apart as he thrust into her.
"I didn't know," she gasped to the empty room. "I didn't know it could be like this."
She slid a second finger inside herself, her thumb continuing its relentless circles on her clitoris. The sensation was overwhelming, building toward something bigger than she had ever experienced alone or with Anand.
The couple on screen changed positions again, the woman now on her knees, back arched as the man entered her from behind. Then again, the woman astride the man, controlling the pace, her breasts bouncing with each movement. And finally, in a configuration that made Devika's eyes widen, they moved into what she vaguely recognized as the sixty-nine position, each pleasuring the other with their mouth simultaneously.
"Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her fingers moving faster, pressure building at the base of her spine, between her legs, a tension that begged for release.
Outside, Ramlal stroked himself in rhythm with Devika's movements, his eyes fixed on her face contorted with pleasure, his mind drifted back to that moment with Devika—the way her skin felt beneath his fingers as he measured her waist, the softness of her body igniting a fire in him. He could still feel the warmth of her breath, the subtle shudder that ran through her when he kissed her neck, sending waves of desire coursing through him, the taste of her, the warmth and salt, the way she would shudder and clutch at his head. Her fingers glistening with her arousal in the dim light from the television. He knew he should leave, should return to his post, should give her the privacy she deserved. But he was held captive by the sight of her—this woman who had occupied his thoughts since her arrival, now lost in self-pleasure while watching a man like him bring a woman to ecstasy.
On screen, the couple had returned to a simpler position, face to face, the man thrusting with increasing urgency as the woman clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, cries growing louder, more desperate.
Devika felt it building, that elusive peak she had chased so many times without success. Her fingers curled inside herself, finding a spot that sent lightning through her veins, her thumb pressing harder, faster against her swollen clitoris.
"Yes, yes, there, there," she gasped, her hips lifting off the sofa, seeking more pressure, more friction. And then it crashed over her—a wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, radiating outward from her core to the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. Her body convulsed, inner muscles clamping down on her fingers, a cry tearing from her throat that she couldn't have suppressed if she tried.
Outside, Ramlal's release followed immediately, triggered by the sight of Devika's climax, her face transformed by pleasure, her body arching in abandon. He spilled into his hand, biting his lip to stay silent, his eyes never leaving her face as wave after wave of pleasure washed through him.
As the intensity faded, Devika collapsed back onto the sofa, boneless and spent, her fingers still nestled between her thighs, aftershocks pulsing around them. On screen, the couple had reached their own conclusion, the man withdrawing to release on the woman's stomach, an act that would have shocked Devika an hour ago but now seemed almost anticlimactic compared to the revelation of her own body's capacity for pleasure.
"So that's what I've been missing," she whispered to the empty room, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips.
Outside, Ramlal withdrew from the window, carefully adjusting his clothing, his heart still racing with what he had witnessed. He descended the stairs on unsteady legs, returning to his post with the image of Devika in ecstasy burned into his memory—a gift he had never expected, a secret he would carry with him like a talisman against the loneliness of his days.
And in her apartment, Devika reached for the remote, turning off the television with a decisive click. The DVD remained to be removed, the second disc unviewed, but those were concerns for another time. For now, she basked in the afterglow of discovery, of pleasure found by her own hand, guided by images that had awakened something long dormant within her.
"There's more," she told herself, a promise and a revelation as she gathered her discarded clothes, preparing for bed with a lightness she hadn't felt in years. "So much more to discover."
Across town, Devika approached her apartment building, the brown envelope burning like a brand against her thigh through the thin fabric of her satchel. The security booth came into view, and with it, Ramlal's weathered face. Their eyes met briefly—his lighting up with recognition, with that particular warmth he reserved only for her—and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. The memory of his hands on her body, measuring, touching, nearly worshipping, flashed unbidden through her mind.
"Good evening, Devika," he called, rising slightly from his chair with a deference that belied the intimacy they had shared.
She managed a small smile but couldn't bring herself to stop. "Evening, Ramlal-ji," she replied, hurrying past him toward the stairwell, her heart racing with something that wasn't quite fear, wasn't quite anticipation, but some strange cocktail of the two.
Ramlal watched her go, his eyes drawn inexorably to the gentle sway of her hips beneath her saree. The fabric had shifted as she walked, revealing a glimpse of her hip fold—that tender curve where thigh met hip—through the thin material of her petticoat. His mouth went dry at the sight, his body responding with an immediacy that surprised him despite his age. She noticed his gaze, he was certain of it—there was a slight hitch in her step, a momentary pause—but she didn't turn back, didn't acknowledge it beyond a barely perceptible quickening of her pace.
"She feels it too," he thought, settling back into his chair with a heavy sigh. "Whatever passed between us, she hasn't forgotten."
Inside her apartment, Devika shed her work clothes like a snake shedding its skin, desperate to be free of the constraints that had bound her all day. She stood under the shower, letting water cascade over her body, washing away the chalk dust from the classroom, the lingering scent of the college's disinfectant, the weight of propriety she carried like armor. But it couldn't wash away the knowledge of what lay in her satchel, waiting, promising something she hadn't allowed herself to want.
Saturday dawned bright and clear, a day without obligations stretching before her like an empty canvas. Devika moved through her morning rituals with mechanical precision—tea, meditation, a light breakfast—but an undercurrent of restlessness pulsed beneath her skin. With no lectures to prepare, no students to teach, the hours yawned wide and vacant.
She tried watching television, flipping through channels with increasing disinterest. She attempted to read, but the words on the page refused to coalesce into meaning, her mind wandering away from the text like a disobedient child. By evening, she had cleaned her already immaculate apartment, reorganized her bookshelves, and called her parents for their weekly check-in, careful to keep her voice steady, to betray nothing of the turmoil that churned within her.
As night settled over Pune, Devika found herself sitting on her sofa, staring at the dark screen of her television, the silence of her apartment pressing against her eardrums like cotton wool. Her mind drifted to the envelope, still tucked in her satchel where she had left it the day before.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm a grown woman. A professor of biology. I teach human reproduction without blushing." Yet still she hesitated, her breath shallow in her chest.
What would her mother think? What would her colleagues say if they knew she was considering watching pornography? What would her students—Vishnu and Pathan with their knowing smirks, their predatory eyes—think of their proper professor then?
"They would never know," she told herself. "No one would ever know."
Except Sharada, who had given her the DVDs. Sharada, who had admitted to watching such things herself. Sharada, who had not judged her for wanting to explore this unknown territory.
"It's not a sin to understand one's own body," Devika murmured, the words sounding strange on her tongue. "It's not wrong to want... pleasure."
Decision made, she rose from the sofa, moving with sudden purpose toward her satchel. The envelope slid free easily, its contents rattling slightly as she extracted it. Two unmarked DVDs nestled inside, their blank surfaces giving no hint of what they contained.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she crossed to her television, hands shaking as she inserted the first disc into the player. She locked her apartment door—an unnecessary precaution at this hour, but it made her feel safer, more contained. The lights went off next, leaving only the dim glow of her small table lamp to illuminate the room. She settled back onto the sofa, remote clutched in her trembling hand.
"Just press play," she told herself. "Just watch. You don't have to like it. You don't have to do anything."
The screen flickered to life, and Devika drew her knees up to her chest, a defensive posture against what might come. The video began without preamble, without the production values or narrative setup she had somehow expected. Just a simple room, a sofa not unlike her own, and an older man—perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and weathered skin—reading a newspaper.
Something in the man's profile, the slope of his shoulders, reminded her of Ramlal. The thought sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, a warmth blooming low in her abdomen.
A woman entered the frame from what appeared to be a kitchen doorway, dressed in shorts that exposed long, tanned legs and a tank top that clung to full breasts. She moved with deliberate sensuality, her eyes fixed on the older man with an intensity that made Devika shift on her sofa, suddenly aware of the fabric of her saree against her skin.
The woman approached the man from behind, sliding her hands over his shoulders, bending to whisper something in his ear. He ignored her, eyes fixed on his newspaper. Undeterred, she circled the sofa, plucked the paper from his hands, and before he could protest, straddled his lap.
"What are you—" the man began, but the woman silenced him with her mouth, pressing her lips to his with a hunger that startled Devika.
This was no chaste peck, no dry meeting of closed lips like the perfunctory kisses she had exchanged with Anand in their later years. This was devouring, consuming, a wet and desperate thing that made Devika's own lips part in unconscious mimicry.
The man's initial resistance melted away, his hands coming up to frame the woman's face, to tangle in her hair as their kiss deepened. Devika watched, transfixed, as their tongues became visible, sliding against each other, tasting, exploring. They broke apart only to gasp for air before diving back in, their mouths locked in what seemed an endless dance of hunger and satisfaction.
"Do people really kiss like that?" Devika whispered to herself, her finger tracing the outline of her own lower lip. She had never been kissed with such abandon, such raw desire. Anand's kisses had been brief, utilitarian—a prelude to the main event, which itself had been brief and unsatisfying.
On screen, the kiss continued, the man's hands sliding down to cup the woman's breasts through her thin top. She moaned into his mouth, arching her back to press more firmly into his touch. In one fluid motion, she reached down, grabbed the hem of her top, and pulled it over her head, revealing a lacy bra that barely contained her generous curves.
The man broke their kiss to stare at her exposed flesh, hunger evident in his eyes. The woman reached behind herself, unclasping her bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away to reveal full, heavy breasts with dark nipples already puckered with arousal.
Devika felt an answering tightness in her own nipples, a heaviness in her breasts that couldn't be ignored. Without conscious thought, her hand drifted up to cup herself through the fabric of her blouse, her palm pressing against the hardened peak she found there.
On screen, the couple had resumed kissing, the woman now gloriously topless, her bare breasts pressed against the man's clothed chest. Their tongues were visible again, sliding against each other in a wet, messy dance that went on and on, far longer than Devika would have thought possible or desirable. Yet she found herself leaning forward, her breathing shallow, her lips parted as if to receive a phantom kiss.
The man's hands came up to cup the woman's bare breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in circles that made her gasp and writhe against him. Then he bent his head, replacing his fingers with his mouth, drawing one dark peak between his lips and sucking hard.
"Oh," Devika breathed, the sound escaping without her permission. Heat surged between her thighs, a damp warmth she hadn't felt in far too long. She pressed her legs together, seeking pressure, relief, but it only intensified the ache.
The man on screen moved from one breast to the other, lavishing equal attention on each nipple, licking, sucking, even gently biting until the woman was moaning continuously, her head thrown back in abandon. Devika had never experienced such attention to her breasts—Anand had touched them briefly, mechanically, never lingering, never exploring what might bring her pleasure.
"Is that what it feels like?" she whispered to the darkness, her hand still cupping her breast, her thumb now mimicking the circular motion she had seen on screen.
The couple continued their exploration, the woman eventually sliding from the man's lap to kneel between his legs. She reached for his belt, unfastening it with eager fingers, then drew down his zipper. The man lifted his hips to help as she tugged his pants and underwear down in one motion, revealing his penis—already semi-erect, larger than Devika had expected, especially for a man of his age.
Devika felt her face flush hot with embarrassment, her hand flying to cover her eyes. But curiosity won out, and she peeked between her fingers, unable to look away as the woman wrapped her hand around the man's shaft, stroking slowly until it grew fully hard.
The image of Ramlal flashed unbidden through Devika's mind—the pressure of his arousal against her back as he measured her, the heat of his breath on her neck, the tremor in his hands as they skimmed her skin. Was he built like this man? Would he grow hard at her touch, her kiss?
"What am I thinking?" she scolded herself, but the thought refused to leave, superimposing Ramlal's face over the actor's, her own body in place of the woman's.
On screen, the woman bent lower, her intentions clear. Devika's breath caught in her throat as she watched the woman's tongue extend, licking a slow path from base to tip of the man's penis. The man groaned, his hand coming to rest on the woman's head, not pushing, just anchoring himself to her as she took him into her mouth.
"Oh my god," Devika breathed, shock and arousal warring within her. She had never done this, had never even considered it. Had known, intellectually, that such acts existed, but had filed them away in the category of things "decent women" didn't do.
Yet here was this woman, her mouth sliding up and down the man's shaft with obvious enjoyment, drawing moans from him that spoke of intense pleasure. And more shocking still was Devika's own response—the surge of wetness between her thighs, the unconscious licking of her lips, the way her mouth had fallen open, mimicking the act she was witnessing.
Her hand slid down from her breast, over the flat plane of her stomach, coming to rest at the juncture of her thighs. The thin fabric of her saree was a barrier, unwelcome now when she craved direct contact. Without allowing herself time to reconsider, Devika stood, unwrapping her saree with practiced movements, letting the yards of fabric pool at her feet.
She settled back onto the sofa clad only in her petticoat and blouse, her hand immediately seeking the warmth between her legs. The dampness there shocked her—she was wetter than she could ever remember being, certainly wetter than Anand had ever made her. Through the thin cotton of her panties, she found her clitoris, circling it with tentative fingers.
"Oh," she gasped, the pleasure sharper, more immediate than she had expected. On screen, the woman continued her oral ministrations, now taking the man's testicles into her mouth, rolling them with her tongue while her hand stroked his shaft.
Devika's fingers moved faster, the pleasure building, but the fabric of her panties chafed, limiting her sensation. Again, she stood, this time hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and drawing them down to her calves, loosening the ties of her petticoat so it hung precariously on her hips.
She sat again, spreading her legs without shame now, her fingers finding her slick folds, exploring with growing confidence. This was her body, her pleasure. Why had she denied herself for so long?
On screen, the dynamic had shifted. The woman was now naked, her legs spread wide as the man knelt between them. To Devika's shock, he lowered his head, pressing his mouth to the woman's sex. The woman's back arched off the sofa, her hands flying to tangle in the man's silver hair, holding him against her.
"Oh, fuck," Devika whispered, the profanity strange and thrilling on her tongue. "Is that—do people—" She couldn't complete the thought, too overwhelmed by the image before her and the pleasure building between her own thighs.
Anand had never done this, had never even suggested it. Their lovemaking had been perfunctory at best—a few kisses, some cursory touching, then penetration that never lasted long enough for her to find release. She had accepted this as normal, as the way things were between husband and wife.
Now, watching this older man devour the woman with obvious enthusiasm, hearing the woman's cries of pleasure, Devika realized how much she had been denied, how much she had denied herself.
Her fingers moved with increased urgency, one sliding inside while her thumb maintained pressure on her clitoris. She moaned, the sound echoing in her empty apartment, louder than she intended but impossible to suppress.
Outside, Ramlal jerked awake in his chair at the security booth, startled by a sound he couldn't immediately place. The night was quiet, the apartment complex still, but something had disturbed his light doze. He glanced around, alert for any sign of trouble, when he noticed a flickering light coming from Devika's window. The curtains were drawn but not completely closed, a sliver of illumination spilling out into the darkness.
Concern furrowed his brow—it was late, past midnight, and the light seemed unsteady, like a television rather than a lamp. Was she unwell? Unable to sleep? The memory of their encounter in her bedroom haunted him still, the feel of her skin beneath his hands, the way she had leaned into his touch before pulling away.
Driven by worry or perhaps by something more selfish, more primal, Ramlal left his post, climbing the stairs to the second floor with a stealth that belied his age. He approached her door, intending to knock, to check on her, but another sound stopped him in his tracks—a moan, unmistakably female, unmistakably Devika.
His breath caught in his throat. Was she with someone? Had she invited a man to her apartment? The thought sent a stab of jealousy through him, sharp and unexpected. But no, he had seen no one enter her flat that evening, and he had been at his post until just moments ago.
Drawn by curiosity he couldn't deny, Ramlal moved to her window, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. What he saw froze him in place, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Devika sat on her sofa, saree pooled on the floor at her feet, panties tangled around her calves, petticoat loose at her hips. Her legs were spread wide, one hand working between them with rhythmic purpose, the other squeezing her breast through her blouse. Her head was thrown back, lips parted, eyes fixed on the television screen where an explicit scene played out—an older man, not unlike himself, pleasuring a woman with his mouth.
"My god," Ramlal whispered, his body responding instantly to the sight before him. This was Devika as he had never seen her—uninhibited, raw, abandoned to pleasure. And she was watching a film featuring a man who could have been his brother, with a woman near her own age.
Was it coincidence? Or had she chosen this particular film because it reminded her of him, of what had almost happened between them?
The thought sent blood rushing to his groin, his penis hardening with an urgency he hadn't felt in years. Without conscious decision, his hand moved to his fly, unzipping quietly, freeing himself from the confines of his uniform trousers.
Inside, unaware of her audience, Devika's pleasure mounted. On screen, the couple had moved to penetration, the man entering the woman in a position she had never tried—her on her back at the edge of the sofa, him standing, holding her legs apart as he thrust into her.
"I didn't know," she gasped to the empty room. "I didn't know it could be like this."
She slid a second finger inside herself, her thumb continuing its relentless circles on her clitoris. The sensation was overwhelming, building toward something bigger than she had ever experienced alone or with Anand.
The couple on screen changed positions again, the woman now on her knees, back arched as the man entered her from behind. Then again, the woman astride the man, controlling the pace, her breasts bouncing with each movement. And finally, in a configuration that made Devika's eyes widen, they moved into what she vaguely recognized as the sixty-nine position, each pleasuring the other with their mouth simultaneously.
"Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her fingers moving faster, pressure building at the base of her spine, between her legs, a tension that begged for release.
Outside, Ramlal stroked himself in rhythm with Devika's movements, his eyes fixed on her face contorted with pleasure, his mind drifted back to that moment with Devika—the way her skin felt beneath his fingers as he measured her waist, the softness of her body igniting a fire in him. He could still feel the warmth of her breath, the subtle shudder that ran through her when he kissed her neck, sending waves of desire coursing through him, the taste of her, the warmth and salt, the way she would shudder and clutch at his head. Her fingers glistening with her arousal in the dim light from the television. He knew he should leave, should return to his post, should give her the privacy she deserved. But he was held captive by the sight of her—this woman who had occupied his thoughts since her arrival, now lost in self-pleasure while watching a man like him bring a woman to ecstasy.
On screen, the couple had returned to a simpler position, face to face, the man thrusting with increasing urgency as the woman clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, cries growing louder, more desperate.
Devika felt it building, that elusive peak she had chased so many times without success. Her fingers curled inside herself, finding a spot that sent lightning through her veins, her thumb pressing harder, faster against her swollen clitoris.
"Yes, yes, there, there," she gasped, her hips lifting off the sofa, seeking more pressure, more friction. And then it crashed over her—a wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, radiating outward from her core to the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. Her body convulsed, inner muscles clamping down on her fingers, a cry tearing from her throat that she couldn't have suppressed if she tried.
Outside, Ramlal's release followed immediately, triggered by the sight of Devika's climax, her face transformed by pleasure, her body arching in abandon. He spilled into his hand, biting his lip to stay silent, his eyes never leaving her face as wave after wave of pleasure washed through him.
As the intensity faded, Devika collapsed back onto the sofa, boneless and spent, her fingers still nestled between her thighs, aftershocks pulsing around them. On screen, the couple had reached their own conclusion, the man withdrawing to release on the woman's stomach, an act that would have shocked Devika an hour ago but now seemed almost anticlimactic compared to the revelation of her own body's capacity for pleasure.
"So that's what I've been missing," she whispered to the empty room, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips.
Outside, Ramlal withdrew from the window, carefully adjusting his clothing, his heart still racing with what he had witnessed. He descended the stairs on unsteady legs, returning to his post with the image of Devika in ecstasy burned into his memory—a gift he had never expected, a secret he would carry with him like a talisman against the loneliness of his days.
And in her apartment, Devika reached for the remote, turning off the television with a decisive click. The DVD remained to be removed, the second disc unviewed, but those were concerns for another time. For now, she basked in the afterglow of discovery, of pleasure found by her own hand, guided by images that had awakened something long dormant within her.
"There's more," she told herself, a promise and a revelation as she gathered her discarded clothes, preparing for bed with a lightness she hadn't felt in years. "So much more to discover."
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