23-06-2025, 11:42 PM
The bathroom tiles felt cool against Devika's bare feet as she emerged from the shower, water droplets racing down her skin like tears. She wrapped a towel around herself and wiped steam from the mirror, studying her reflection with new eyes. The woman who stared back was both familiar and strange—the same features, the same body, but animated by something different, something hungry. She touched her waist, remembering the pressure of Pathan's face against her navel, the heat of his breath seeping through her saree. What kind of woman was she becoming?
With her hair dripping onto her shoulders, Devika moved to her bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Instead of reaching for her usual cotton nightgown, her fingers lingered over a midnight-blue night saree—a gift from Anand last Diwali that she'd never worn. The fabric was gossamer thin, meant for intimacy rather than sleep. Beside it hung a matching sleeveless blouse with delicate embroidery along its edges.
"Why not?" she whispered to the empty room. Her earlier boldness hadn't left her; rather, it seemed to have taken root, growing stronger in the quiet of her apartment.
She slipped the blouse over her damp skin, the cool silk making her shiver. The armholes were cut lower than the one she'd worn to college, revealing the soft curve where her arm met her chest. The saree dbangd differently than her daytime ones—looser, more suggestive in how it clung to the contours of her body. She secured it at her waist, then studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at her seemed like a stranger—confident, sensual, aware of her own power.
"You wore a sleeveless blouse and pressed yourself against a student today," she told her reflection, testing how the words felt. "You let a boy's lips touch your navel."
The memory of the laboratory flooded back with visceral clarity. Vishnu had been struggling with the burette, his large hands too clumsy for the delicate instrument. She had positioned herself behind him, her body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his back. Her hands had covered his, guiding them to the proper position on the glass tube.
"Like this," she had whispered, her lips near his ear, conscious of how her breasts pressed lightly against his back. "You need to control the flow rate by applying gentle pressure."
She had felt him freeze, felt the tension in his muscles as he tried to maintain composure. The power she'd experienced in that moment—the knowledge that she could affect him so deeply with such minimal contact—had been intoxicating. It was a different kind of control than what she wielded as a professor; this was primal, intimate, dangerous.
The memory sent a flush of heat through her body. It was wrong—she knew it was wrong—and yet, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not after months of feeling invisible, months of knowing her husband was touching other women while she withered in lonely fidelity.
Devika moved to the living room, the night saree whispering against her skin with each step. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty. Usually, she welcomed the solitude after a day surrounded by students and colleagues, but tonight was different. The new sensations she'd awakened craved an audience, a witness.
She picked up her phone, then set it down again. Who could she possibly call? Saradha would ask too many questions, would immediately sense the shift in her. Her family in Kerala was out of the question—what would she even say to them? And friends... she hadn't made many since moving to Pune, her life revolving around work and her absent husband.
An image formed in her mind: Ramlal, the night security guard for her apartment building. Middle-aged, respectful, with eyes that followed her movements when he thought she wasn't looking. She'd caught him watching her once before, on a night when curiosity had led her to open one of the videos Saradha had shared—explicit content she'd never sought out herself. She'd forgotten to draw the curtains, and later realized he must have seen her through the window, seen her hand moving beneath her nightgown as she watched the forbidden images on her screen.
Neither of them had mentioned it, but something had changed in how he looked at her since that night—a new awareness, an unspoken secret between them.
"This is madness," she muttered, even as she reached for the intercom that connected to the security desk. Her finger hovered over the button. What exactly was she planning? To invite him up? For what purpose?
She wasn't entirely sure herself. Perhaps she just wanted company, someone to talk to. Perhaps she wanted to see desire in another man's eyes, to confirm that this power she'd felt today wasn't an illusion. Perhaps she wanted something more—a continuation of the boundaries she'd already crossed.
Whatever it was, she would keep it under control. She was still Dr. Devika, still the careful academic who thought through her actions. This would just be conversation, nothing more. She pressed the intercom button.
"Hello? Security desk?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, softer than usual, almost tentative.
"Yes, madam?" Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker. "Any problem?"
"No problem, Ramlal. I was just wondering... if you're not too busy, could you come up to my flat for a moment? There's something I'd like to discuss."
A pause, filled with static. "Of course, madam. I will come right away."
"Thank you." She released the button, her heart hammering against her ribs. What was she doing? This wasn't like her at all—inviting a man to her apartment at night, dressed as she was. Yet she made no move to change, to cover her exposed arms or swap the diaphanous night saree for something more modest.
Minutes later, a soft knock at her door. Devika took a deep breath, smoothed her saree, and opened it to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, his security uniform neatly pressed, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.
"Good evening, madam," he said, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her appearance. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes, everything's fine," she replied, stepping back to allow him entry. "Please, come in. I just... I wanted some company tonight. It gets lonely sometimes."
Ramlal hesitated at the threshold, his gaze moving from her face to her bare arms and back again. "If you are sure, madam..."
"I am. Please." She gestured toward the sofa. "Would you like some tea?"
"That would be very nice, thank you." He stepped inside, moving carefully, as if entering a temple rather than an apartment.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a moment." Devika moved toward the kitchen, aware of his eyes following her, tracking the sway of her saree, the exposed skin of her arms and back where the blouse cut away.
In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and set it to boil, her movements deliberate, almost performative. She reached for cups in the upper cabinet, stretching so that her saree pulled taut across her hips. Through the doorway, she could see Ramlal sitting rigidly on the edge of the sofa, his hands on his knees, watching her with an intensity that sent a thrill down her spine.
As she prepared the tea, adding cardamom and ginger the way her mother had taught her, Devika felt strangely calm. This was inappropriate—inviting the security guard into her home at night, dressed as she was—but after the day's events, the boundaries of propriety seemed flexible, negotiable. She was no longer sure where the lines were drawn, or if she cared about crossing them.
She returned to the living room with two cups of steaming tea, setting one before Ramlal before taking a seat in the armchair opposite him. Not too close, but close enough to observe the subtle shifts in his expression as he looked at her.
"Thank you for the tea, madam," he said, lifting the cup to his lips. His eyes remained fixed on her face, but there was something in his gaze—a knowledge, a memory—that made heat rise to her cheeks.
He was remembering that night, she realized. Remembering how he'd seen her touching herself, her face contorted in pleasure as she watched strangers coupling on her screen. The thought should have mortified her, but instead, it gave her a strange sense of power.
"You look different tonight, madam," Ramlal said, breaking the silence. "Very beautiful."
"Thank you," she replied, sipping her tea. "I've been trying something new. Sleeveless blouses. I wore one to college today."
"It suits you very well." His eyes dropped briefly to her arms before returning to her face. "Did your colleagues notice the change?"
Devika smiled, remembering Saradha's approval, Seenu's hungry stares. "Oh yes, they noticed. My friend Saradha encouraged me. My department head was... quite attentive." She paused, watching Ramlal's face. "Even my students couldn't keep their eyes off me."
"I can understand why," Ramlal said, then immediately looked down at his tea. "I mean, it is a very nice style for you, madam."
"I've noticed many men's eyes on me today," she continued, emboldened by his reaction. "Even now, your eyes keep wandering, Ramlal. You look at me in a certain way."
He fumbled with his teacup, nearly spilling it. "No, madam, I would never—"
"It's alright," she interrupted, her voice gentle but playful. "There's no need to lie. I see how you look at me."
Ramlal's face flushed, his eyes meeting hers briefly before dropping again. He gave a small, embarrassed nod.
"I've been wondering," Devika said, changing the subject slightly, "why do so many men in Pune chew paan? Even my HOD chews it constantly. The red stains everywhere—it's so different from Kerala."
Ramlal seemed relieved at the shift in conversation. "That is just our way, madam. Some cannot live without paan, just like Kerala people cannot live without their Malabar beedis."
Devika laughed, the sound filling the small living room. "You're right about that. Every uncle in my village has stained fingers from those beedis."
"Each place has its own... pleasures," Ramlal said, seeming more at ease now. "Things people cannot resist."
"What else is famous here?" she asked, leaning forward slightly. "What other local pleasures should I try?"
"Kulfi," he replied immediately. "Our kulfi is very famous. Especially young women like you, they enjoy it very much."
"Is that so?" Devika tilted her head, noting something in his tone that suggested there was more to his words.
"Oh yes," Ramlal nodded, gaining confidence. "They love to suck it, lick it till the very end of the kulfi." He paused, watching her reaction. "Some women, they like to take the entire kulfi in their mouth at once."
The double meaning was unmistakable now. Devika felt her cheeks warm, but instead of reprimanding him or expressing outrage, she found herself playing along. "I've never tasted one," she said softly.
"Not to worry, madam," Ramlal replied, his voice lower now. "When the time comes, I will give you mine—" he caught himself, "I mean, buy and give to you. You can taste it then."
"I look forward to that," she heard herself saying, her voice honeyed with suggestion. "I'm waiting for that opportunity."
Ramlal's eyes darkened. "I cannot wait to see your lips wrapping around the kulfi, licking with your tongue."
Devika's heart raced, her breath coming quicker. This was dangerous territory, far beyond anything she'd ventured into before. Yet she couldn't stop herself. "I hope your kulfi—I mean, the one you buy for me—won't melt too easily."
"I will try," he replied, his voice husky now. "But when someone like you sucks it, it cannot withstand the heat. It might melt quickly in your mouth."
A liquid warmth pooled between her thighs at his words. This conversation—so explicit in its subtext, yet maintaining the thinnest veneer of innocence—was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. It terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
"I heard in Kerala, mangoes are famous," Ramlal said, changing the subject but not the underlying current.
"Yes, they are very famous," she confirmed, wondering where this new metaphor would lead.
"I like mangoes," he continued, his eyes briefly dropping to her chest before returning to her face. "Not too big, not too small. I like medium, natural-sized mangoes."
The wetness between her thighs intensified. She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, which only heightened the sensation. "Have you tasted Kerala mangoes?" she asked, her tone playful, deliberately echoing his double meaning.
"No," he shook his head slowly. "Not sure whether I will get the chance to taste those."
"Don't worry," Devika said, surprising herself with her boldness. "You may get a chance. I mean, when I go to Kerala, I will bring a few back. You can taste them then."
"Thank you, madam," Ramlal said, his voice strained now. "I would love to suck those mangoes of yours—I mean, the ones you bring from your hometown."
The air between them felt charged, electric with unspoken desires. Devika could see Ramlal's hands trembling slightly as he set down his teacup. His breathing had quickened, his face flushed with excitement and perhaps a hint of shame. For a man his age, in his position, this conversation was clearly overwhelming.
"I should return to my post," he said suddenly, standing up. "It is getting late, and I have duties."
Devika nodded, rising as well. "Of course. Thank you for keeping me company."
"It was my pleasure, madam," he replied, moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "Perhaps another time, we can continue our... discussion about local specialties."
"I'd like that," she said softly.
After he left, Devika leaned against the closed door, her heart pounding in her chest. What had she done? The conversation had veered so far from propriety, had contained such explicit suggestions, that she could hardly believe it had been her participating, encouraging it even.
She moved to the window, pushing aside the curtain to look down at the security desk. Ramlal had resumed his position, but even from this distance, she could see how he sat with his head in his hands, seemingly as shocked by what had transpired as she was.
Devika let the curtain fall back into place and moved toward her bedroom, the night saree clinging to her heated skin. The woman she had been yesterday—proper, contained, respectable Dr. Devika—would never have recognized the woman she was becoming. Yet as she lay down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, she couldn't bring herself to regret any of it. Not Seenu, not the students, not Ramlal.
For the first time since learning of Anand's betrayal, she felt something other than pain and humiliation. She felt alive, powerful, desired. And dangerous as it might be, she wasn't ready to give that feeling up.
With her hair dripping onto her shoulders, Devika moved to her bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Instead of reaching for her usual cotton nightgown, her fingers lingered over a midnight-blue night saree—a gift from Anand last Diwali that she'd never worn. The fabric was gossamer thin, meant for intimacy rather than sleep. Beside it hung a matching sleeveless blouse with delicate embroidery along its edges.
"Why not?" she whispered to the empty room. Her earlier boldness hadn't left her; rather, it seemed to have taken root, growing stronger in the quiet of her apartment.
She slipped the blouse over her damp skin, the cool silk making her shiver. The armholes were cut lower than the one she'd worn to college, revealing the soft curve where her arm met her chest. The saree dbangd differently than her daytime ones—looser, more suggestive in how it clung to the contours of her body. She secured it at her waist, then studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at her seemed like a stranger—confident, sensual, aware of her own power.
"You wore a sleeveless blouse and pressed yourself against a student today," she told her reflection, testing how the words felt. "You let a boy's lips touch your navel."
The memory of the laboratory flooded back with visceral clarity. Vishnu had been struggling with the burette, his large hands too clumsy for the delicate instrument. She had positioned herself behind him, her body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his back. Her hands had covered his, guiding them to the proper position on the glass tube.
"Like this," she had whispered, her lips near his ear, conscious of how her breasts pressed lightly against his back. "You need to control the flow rate by applying gentle pressure."
She had felt him freeze, felt the tension in his muscles as he tried to maintain composure. The power she'd experienced in that moment—the knowledge that she could affect him so deeply with such minimal contact—had been intoxicating. It was a different kind of control than what she wielded as a professor; this was primal, intimate, dangerous.
The memory sent a flush of heat through her body. It was wrong—she knew it was wrong—and yet, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not after months of feeling invisible, months of knowing her husband was touching other women while she withered in lonely fidelity.
Devika moved to the living room, the night saree whispering against her skin with each step. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty. Usually, she welcomed the solitude after a day surrounded by students and colleagues, but tonight was different. The new sensations she'd awakened craved an audience, a witness.
She picked up her phone, then set it down again. Who could she possibly call? Saradha would ask too many questions, would immediately sense the shift in her. Her family in Kerala was out of the question—what would she even say to them? And friends... she hadn't made many since moving to Pune, her life revolving around work and her absent husband.
An image formed in her mind: Ramlal, the night security guard for her apartment building. Middle-aged, respectful, with eyes that followed her movements when he thought she wasn't looking. She'd caught him watching her once before, on a night when curiosity had led her to open one of the videos Saradha had shared—explicit content she'd never sought out herself. She'd forgotten to draw the curtains, and later realized he must have seen her through the window, seen her hand moving beneath her nightgown as she watched the forbidden images on her screen.
Neither of them had mentioned it, but something had changed in how he looked at her since that night—a new awareness, an unspoken secret between them.
"This is madness," she muttered, even as she reached for the intercom that connected to the security desk. Her finger hovered over the button. What exactly was she planning? To invite him up? For what purpose?
She wasn't entirely sure herself. Perhaps she just wanted company, someone to talk to. Perhaps she wanted to see desire in another man's eyes, to confirm that this power she'd felt today wasn't an illusion. Perhaps she wanted something more—a continuation of the boundaries she'd already crossed.
Whatever it was, she would keep it under control. She was still Dr. Devika, still the careful academic who thought through her actions. This would just be conversation, nothing more. She pressed the intercom button.
"Hello? Security desk?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, softer than usual, almost tentative.
"Yes, madam?" Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker. "Any problem?"
"No problem, Ramlal. I was just wondering... if you're not too busy, could you come up to my flat for a moment? There's something I'd like to discuss."
A pause, filled with static. "Of course, madam. I will come right away."
"Thank you." She released the button, her heart hammering against her ribs. What was she doing? This wasn't like her at all—inviting a man to her apartment at night, dressed as she was. Yet she made no move to change, to cover her exposed arms or swap the diaphanous night saree for something more modest.
Minutes later, a soft knock at her door. Devika took a deep breath, smoothed her saree, and opened it to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, his security uniform neatly pressed, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.
"Good evening, madam," he said, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her appearance. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes, everything's fine," she replied, stepping back to allow him entry. "Please, come in. I just... I wanted some company tonight. It gets lonely sometimes."
Ramlal hesitated at the threshold, his gaze moving from her face to her bare arms and back again. "If you are sure, madam..."
"I am. Please." She gestured toward the sofa. "Would you like some tea?"
"That would be very nice, thank you." He stepped inside, moving carefully, as if entering a temple rather than an apartment.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a moment." Devika moved toward the kitchen, aware of his eyes following her, tracking the sway of her saree, the exposed skin of her arms and back where the blouse cut away.
In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and set it to boil, her movements deliberate, almost performative. She reached for cups in the upper cabinet, stretching so that her saree pulled taut across her hips. Through the doorway, she could see Ramlal sitting rigidly on the edge of the sofa, his hands on his knees, watching her with an intensity that sent a thrill down her spine.
As she prepared the tea, adding cardamom and ginger the way her mother had taught her, Devika felt strangely calm. This was inappropriate—inviting the security guard into her home at night, dressed as she was—but after the day's events, the boundaries of propriety seemed flexible, negotiable. She was no longer sure where the lines were drawn, or if she cared about crossing them.
She returned to the living room with two cups of steaming tea, setting one before Ramlal before taking a seat in the armchair opposite him. Not too close, but close enough to observe the subtle shifts in his expression as he looked at her.
"Thank you for the tea, madam," he said, lifting the cup to his lips. His eyes remained fixed on her face, but there was something in his gaze—a knowledge, a memory—that made heat rise to her cheeks.
He was remembering that night, she realized. Remembering how he'd seen her touching herself, her face contorted in pleasure as she watched strangers coupling on her screen. The thought should have mortified her, but instead, it gave her a strange sense of power.
"You look different tonight, madam," Ramlal said, breaking the silence. "Very beautiful."
"Thank you," she replied, sipping her tea. "I've been trying something new. Sleeveless blouses. I wore one to college today."
"It suits you very well." His eyes dropped briefly to her arms before returning to her face. "Did your colleagues notice the change?"
Devika smiled, remembering Saradha's approval, Seenu's hungry stares. "Oh yes, they noticed. My friend Saradha encouraged me. My department head was... quite attentive." She paused, watching Ramlal's face. "Even my students couldn't keep their eyes off me."
"I can understand why," Ramlal said, then immediately looked down at his tea. "I mean, it is a very nice style for you, madam."
"I've noticed many men's eyes on me today," she continued, emboldened by his reaction. "Even now, your eyes keep wandering, Ramlal. You look at me in a certain way."
He fumbled with his teacup, nearly spilling it. "No, madam, I would never—"
"It's alright," she interrupted, her voice gentle but playful. "There's no need to lie. I see how you look at me."
Ramlal's face flushed, his eyes meeting hers briefly before dropping again. He gave a small, embarrassed nod.
"I've been wondering," Devika said, changing the subject slightly, "why do so many men in Pune chew paan? Even my HOD chews it constantly. The red stains everywhere—it's so different from Kerala."
Ramlal seemed relieved at the shift in conversation. "That is just our way, madam. Some cannot live without paan, just like Kerala people cannot live without their Malabar beedis."
Devika laughed, the sound filling the small living room. "You're right about that. Every uncle in my village has stained fingers from those beedis."
"Each place has its own... pleasures," Ramlal said, seeming more at ease now. "Things people cannot resist."
"What else is famous here?" she asked, leaning forward slightly. "What other local pleasures should I try?"
"Kulfi," he replied immediately. "Our kulfi is very famous. Especially young women like you, they enjoy it very much."
"Is that so?" Devika tilted her head, noting something in his tone that suggested there was more to his words.
"Oh yes," Ramlal nodded, gaining confidence. "They love to suck it, lick it till the very end of the kulfi." He paused, watching her reaction. "Some women, they like to take the entire kulfi in their mouth at once."
The double meaning was unmistakable now. Devika felt her cheeks warm, but instead of reprimanding him or expressing outrage, she found herself playing along. "I've never tasted one," she said softly.
"Not to worry, madam," Ramlal replied, his voice lower now. "When the time comes, I will give you mine—" he caught himself, "I mean, buy and give to you. You can taste it then."
"I look forward to that," she heard herself saying, her voice honeyed with suggestion. "I'm waiting for that opportunity."
Ramlal's eyes darkened. "I cannot wait to see your lips wrapping around the kulfi, licking with your tongue."
Devika's heart raced, her breath coming quicker. This was dangerous territory, far beyond anything she'd ventured into before. Yet she couldn't stop herself. "I hope your kulfi—I mean, the one you buy for me—won't melt too easily."
"I will try," he replied, his voice husky now. "But when someone like you sucks it, it cannot withstand the heat. It might melt quickly in your mouth."
A liquid warmth pooled between her thighs at his words. This conversation—so explicit in its subtext, yet maintaining the thinnest veneer of innocence—was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. It terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
"I heard in Kerala, mangoes are famous," Ramlal said, changing the subject but not the underlying current.
"Yes, they are very famous," she confirmed, wondering where this new metaphor would lead.
"I like mangoes," he continued, his eyes briefly dropping to her chest before returning to her face. "Not too big, not too small. I like medium, natural-sized mangoes."
The wetness between her thighs intensified. She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, which only heightened the sensation. "Have you tasted Kerala mangoes?" she asked, her tone playful, deliberately echoing his double meaning.
"No," he shook his head slowly. "Not sure whether I will get the chance to taste those."
"Don't worry," Devika said, surprising herself with her boldness. "You may get a chance. I mean, when I go to Kerala, I will bring a few back. You can taste them then."
"Thank you, madam," Ramlal said, his voice strained now. "I would love to suck those mangoes of yours—I mean, the ones you bring from your hometown."
The air between them felt charged, electric with unspoken desires. Devika could see Ramlal's hands trembling slightly as he set down his teacup. His breathing had quickened, his face flushed with excitement and perhaps a hint of shame. For a man his age, in his position, this conversation was clearly overwhelming.
"I should return to my post," he said suddenly, standing up. "It is getting late, and I have duties."
Devika nodded, rising as well. "Of course. Thank you for keeping me company."
"It was my pleasure, madam," he replied, moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "Perhaps another time, we can continue our... discussion about local specialties."
"I'd like that," she said softly.
After he left, Devika leaned against the closed door, her heart pounding in her chest. What had she done? The conversation had veered so far from propriety, had contained such explicit suggestions, that she could hardly believe it had been her participating, encouraging it even.
She moved to the window, pushing aside the curtain to look down at the security desk. Ramlal had resumed his position, but even from this distance, she could see how he sat with his head in his hands, seemingly as shocked by what had transpired as she was.
Devika let the curtain fall back into place and moved toward her bedroom, the night saree clinging to her heated skin. The woman she had been yesterday—proper, contained, respectable Dr. Devika—would never have recognized the woman she was becoming. Yet as she lay down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, she couldn't bring herself to regret any of it. Not Seenu, not the students, not Ramlal.
For the first time since learning of Anand's betrayal, she felt something other than pain and humiliation. She felt alive, powerful, desired. And dangerous as it might be, she wasn't ready to give that feeling up.
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