25-06-2025, 12:34 AM
# Scene 1
The door clicked shut behind Ramlal, leaving Devika alone in the suddenly vast emptiness of her apartment. The air still carried the scent of fresh parathas and something else—the musk of male sweat, the lingering heat of forbidden touch. She pressed her hands to her face, fingers still dusty with flour, and inhaled deeply. What had she done? What had she almost allowed to happen? Her body thrummed with conflicting signals—alarm, shame, and underneath it all, a persistent, unfamiliar hunger that refused to be silenced.
"I asked him to take off his shirt," she whispered to the empty kitchen, testing how the words felt in her mouth. They tasted of both transgression and liberation. "I let him touch me."
Devika's legs carried her to the bathroom, her movements mechanical, divorced from the chaos of her thoughts. The fluorescent light flickered on, harsh and unforgiving, as she faced her reflection in the mirror. She looked both familiar and foreign to herself—the same features she'd seen countless mornings, yet animated by something new, something dangerous.
Her fingers rose to her neck, finding the spot where Ramlal's mouth had been. There, just above her collarbone, bloomed a small purple bruise, the outline of teeth visible in its center. The paan-stained imprint of his desire marked her skin like a brand.
"His teeth," she murmured, touching the tender spot. "Dirty with paan." She remembered the rough scbang of his mouth, the slight bitterness she'd tasted when his breath fanned across her skin. The evidence of his addiction was now physically imprinted on her body, a temporary tattoo of their transgression.
Slowly, she unwrapped her saree, letting the midnight-blue fabric pool at her feet. The sleeveless blouse came next, buttons opening one by one until she stood in just her petticoat. Her eyes widened at what she saw in the mirror. Along her waist and hips, reddish marks spread like watercolors on wet paper—the imprint of his flour-dusted fingers, the evidence of his desperate kneading of her flesh.
"Like dough," she said softly, tracing the marks with her fingertips. "He kneaded me like dough."
The reality of what had happened—what had almost happened—crashed over her. She had invited a man into her home, had orchestrated a scenario designed to bring them into intimate contact. She had welcomed his touch, his kiss, his desire. If she hadn't stopped him when she did...
A flush spread across her skin, partly shame, partly something else—a dark thrill at her own boldness, at the power she held over him. She turned sideways, examining the marks more carefully. There was something almost beautiful about them, these temporary tattoos of passion.
"What am I becoming?" she asked her reflection. The woman looking back at her offered no answers, only the evidence of her metamorphosis written across her skin.
The shower beckoned, promising cleanliness, normalcy. She turned the water as hot as she could bear, stepping under the spray with a gasp. Steam filled the small bathroom as she scrubbed her skin, watching the last traces of flour swirl down the drain. If only her confusion could be washed away so easily.
As she cleansed herself, a strange sadness settled over her. The marks would fade, the evidence of tonight's encounter would disappear, and she would return to being Dr. Devika, the respected professor with the absent husband. For a brief moment, she'd been someone else—someone wild and hungry and free. Someone who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to reach for it.
Water sluiced down her body, carrying away the physical traces of Ramlal's touch, but unable to erase the memory of it from her skin. When she finally emerged from the shower, pink and raw from her vigorous scrubbing, she dried herself with careful movements, then slipped into her cotton nightgown without looking in the mirror again.
In bed, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the events of the evening playing on endless loop behind her eyes. The weight of Ramlal's body against hers. The roughness of his hands. The heat of his breath. The moment when desire had given way to fear, when she'd pulled away. Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of flour and fire and hands that never stopped touching her.
---
In his small booth at the entrance to the apartment complex, Ramlal sat hunched over, his head in his hands. The night stretched endlessly before him, each minute an exercise in self-recrimination. He cursed himself in harsh whispers, each oath more biting than the last.
"Fool," he muttered, slamming his fist against the desk. "You had her right there. Right there in your hands. And you let her slip away."
The memory of Devika's body pressed against his was torture—so vivid he could still feel the softness of her hips beneath his palms. His fingers curled reflexively, as if trying to recapture the sensation of her flesh yielding to his touch.
"So soft," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Like nothing I've ever felt before."
He remembered the precise moment when she'd leaned back against him, her consent unspoken but unmistakable. The slight arch of her spine, the tilt of her head exposing the delicate curve of her neck. She had wanted him—he was certain of it. And yet, he'd moved too quickly, too roughly. He'd frightened her.
"I should have been gentler," he told the empty booth. "Should have taken my time. Removed her saree first, slowly. Then the blouse." His breathing quickened as he imagined how it might have gone differently. "She would have been vulnerable then. Exposed. She wouldn't have stopped me."
The fantasy bloomed in vivid detail—Devika's saree falling away to reveal more of her golden skin, his hands working the buttons of her blouse until it gaped open, exposing the curves he'd only felt through fabric. In his mind, she didn't pull away. In his mind, she welcomed him, encouraged him, begged for more.
"Next time," he vowed, the words a promise and a prayer. "Next time I won't waste my chance."
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his body still tense with unfulfilled desire. The taste of her skin lingered on his lips—salt and sweetness and something uniquely hers. He'd marked her, he knew. Left the imprint of his teeth on her neck, his fingers on her hips. The thought sent a surge of primitive satisfaction through him. Even now, she would be looking at those marks, touching them, remembering.
"She'll call me again," he decided, certainty growing with each moment. "She'll want more. And when she does..."
He let the thought trail off, savoring the possibilities. Next time, he wouldn't hesitate. Next time, he would take what was offered, and more. The respectable professor from Kerala had revealed a different side tonight—a woman of fire and hunger, aching to be touched. And he would be the one to touch her, to claim her, to satisfy the need she could no longer hide.
"Next time," Ramlal repeated, his voice firmer now, his resolve hardening. "I am not going to leave the opportunity. Not again."
The night deepened around him, his imagination the only company in his small security booth. Outside, the city slept, unaware of the promises being made in the darkness, the boundaries being redrawn, the hunger growing stronger with each passing hour.
# Scene 2
Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, pulling Devika from troubled dreams into consciousness. Her body felt heavy, as if she'd run a great distance in her sleep. Memory flooded back—Ramlal's hands on her waist, his teeth at her neck, the dangerous precipice she'd nearly tumbled over. She sat up with a jolt, her fingers immediately finding their way to her collarbone, searching for evidence of last night's transgression.
She hurried to the bathroom, heart pounding as she leaned toward the mirror. To her relief, the bite mark had faded to the faintest shadow, barely visible unless she knew exactly where to look. She turned, examining her hips and waist where his flour-dusted fingers had pressed and kneaded. The reddish marks there too had softened overnight, retreating like tide marks on sand, leaving her skin unmarked but somehow changed—as if the memory of touch had seeped beneath the surface.
"Thank goodness," she whispered, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Her wardrobe stood open, the sleeveless blouses hanging like silent tempters among her more modest attire. Devika's fingers hovered over the emerald green one she'd worn the day before yesterday, the one that had started this cascade of boundary-crossing. Something in her wanted to continue the experiment, to feel men's eyes on her exposed skin again, to wield that strange, intoxicating power she'd discovered.
But another part—the cautious academic who had built her reputation on competence and dignity—urged restraint. She had ventured too far, too fast. It was time to retreat, to reassess, to remember who she was supposed to be.
"Not today," she decided, selecting instead a high-necked, full-sleeved blouse in deep maroon. The fabric embraced her arms completely, a cotton armor against unwanted—or perhaps too wanted—attention.
She chose a cream-colored saree with a simple gold border, dbanging it with practiced movements, making sure the pallu covered her shoulders fully. As she fastened her mangalsutra around her neck, she remembered Seenu's fingers fumbling with the clasp, his breath hot against her skin. So many boundaries crossed in such a short time. She needed to find her footing again, to remember who Dr. Devika was before all this began.
The college corridors felt different this morning—quieter, more subdued. Devika made her way to the staff room, nodding at students who greeted her with their usual respect. Inside, she immediately noticed Saradha's absence. Her friend's desk sat empty, her colorful shawl missing from the chair back where it usually hung.
"Dr. Devika," called Professor Mehta from across the room. "Saradha called in sick today. Some stomach bug, she said."
Devika nodded her thanks for the information while a small wave of vulnerability washed over her. Without Saradha's protective chatter and companionship, she felt exposed, as if everyone could somehow see through her modest attire to the woman who had pressed herself against the security guard just hours ago.
She settled at her desk, arranging her papers with mechanical precision, trying to lose herself in the familiar routine of academic work. The lab equipment requisition forms demanded her attention, a welcome distraction from the memories that kept surfacing like bubbles in boiling water.
"Excuse me, madam?"
The voice—male, weathered, with the distinctive local accent—broke through her concentration. Devika looked up to find an older man standing before her desk, his hands clasped respectfully at his waist. He wore the college's peon uniform, the khaki fabric pressed into neat creases. His beard was a study in contrasts—dark hairs interspersed with gray, untidy yet somehow dignified. Behind thick glasses, his eyes crinkled at the corners, crow's feet speaking of decades spent under the harsh Indian sun.
"Yes?" she replied, setting down her pen.
"Good morning, madam. I am Ganapathi. Ganapathi Rao." He offered a small bow, his back bending with the stiffness of age. "I have joined as new peon for science department."
"Oh, I see. Good morning, Mr. Rao." Devika nodded politely. "Welcome to the college."
"Thank you, madam." His eyes moved over her face with unconcealed interest, lingering longer than strictly professional. "I am coming to introduce myself to all faculty members. Principal sir told me to meet everyone."
"That's very thoughtful," she said, feeling a strange discomfort under his persistent gaze.
Ganapathi didn't move away as expected. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Madam, if you don't mind me asking, you are not from Maharashtra, yes?"
The question surprised her. "No, I'm from Kerala. I moved here when I got the position."
His face brightened, as if he'd solved a particularly challenging puzzle. "Ah! Kerala! I knew it. You are looking too beautiful to be local Pune woman."
Devika blinked, taken aback by the directness of the compliment. "I'm sorry?"
"Kerala women have special beauty," he continued, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. "Different complexion, different features. No Pune women look like you, madam. When I saw you, my heart beat very fast. I thought, 'who is this beautiful lady?'"
His frankness was disarming, delivered with such matter-of-fact sincerity that it was difficult to take offense. Still, Devika felt her cheeks warm at his unfiltered admiration.
"That's... very kind of you to say," she managed, unsure how to respond to such direct praise from a man old enough to be her father.
"Not kind, madam. Only truth." Ganapathi nodded emphatically, his beard bobbing with the movement. "Kerala women famous for beauty. But you are exceptional even among them."
Devika glanced around, hoping someone might interrupt this increasingly awkward conversation, but the other faculty members were engrossed in their own work.
"Well, thank you for introducing yourself," she said, trying to bring the interaction to a close. "I'm sure you have other faculty members to meet."
"Yes, yes," Ganapathi agreed, though he made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping even further. "Madam, if you require any help, anything at all, please ask for Ganapathi. I am expert in solving all problems for faculty."
There was something in his tone—a weight to the words 'anything at all'—that made Devika wonder if she was reading too much into a simple offer of assistance. After the events of the past few days, perhaps she was seeing hidden meanings where none existed.
"I'll keep that in mind, thank you," she said, picking up her pen again in a clear signal that the conversation was over.
"No need for thanks, madam. It is my duty." He finally straightened, preparing to leave. "And my pleasure," he added, with a small smile that revealed teeth stained dark red from years of paan chewing.
As Ganapathi moved away, Devika exhaled slowly. What was happening to her life? First Seenu, then her students, then Ramlal, and now this elderly peon—all of them looking at her with that same hungry gaze. Had something fundamentally changed about her, some invisible signal she was now broadcasting? Or had it always been there, and she'd only just become aware of it?
She returned to her forms, but concentration proved elusive. The memory of Ganapathi's admiring gaze lingered, joining the ghostly sensations of Ramlal's hands on her waist, Pathan's face against her navel, Seenu's fingers at her neck. Different men, different touches, different transgressions—yet all connected by a thread of desire that seemed to be weaving itself through the fabric of her life, creating a pattern she couldn't yet decipher.
The door clicked shut behind Ramlal, leaving Devika alone in the suddenly vast emptiness of her apartment. The air still carried the scent of fresh parathas and something else—the musk of male sweat, the lingering heat of forbidden touch. She pressed her hands to her face, fingers still dusty with flour, and inhaled deeply. What had she done? What had she almost allowed to happen? Her body thrummed with conflicting signals—alarm, shame, and underneath it all, a persistent, unfamiliar hunger that refused to be silenced.
"I asked him to take off his shirt," she whispered to the empty kitchen, testing how the words felt in her mouth. They tasted of both transgression and liberation. "I let him touch me."
Devika's legs carried her to the bathroom, her movements mechanical, divorced from the chaos of her thoughts. The fluorescent light flickered on, harsh and unforgiving, as she faced her reflection in the mirror. She looked both familiar and foreign to herself—the same features she'd seen countless mornings, yet animated by something new, something dangerous.
Her fingers rose to her neck, finding the spot where Ramlal's mouth had been. There, just above her collarbone, bloomed a small purple bruise, the outline of teeth visible in its center. The paan-stained imprint of his desire marked her skin like a brand.
"His teeth," she murmured, touching the tender spot. "Dirty with paan." She remembered the rough scbang of his mouth, the slight bitterness she'd tasted when his breath fanned across her skin. The evidence of his addiction was now physically imprinted on her body, a temporary tattoo of their transgression.
Slowly, she unwrapped her saree, letting the midnight-blue fabric pool at her feet. The sleeveless blouse came next, buttons opening one by one until she stood in just her petticoat. Her eyes widened at what she saw in the mirror. Along her waist and hips, reddish marks spread like watercolors on wet paper—the imprint of his flour-dusted fingers, the evidence of his desperate kneading of her flesh.
"Like dough," she said softly, tracing the marks with her fingertips. "He kneaded me like dough."
The reality of what had happened—what had almost happened—crashed over her. She had invited a man into her home, had orchestrated a scenario designed to bring them into intimate contact. She had welcomed his touch, his kiss, his desire. If she hadn't stopped him when she did...
A flush spread across her skin, partly shame, partly something else—a dark thrill at her own boldness, at the power she held over him. She turned sideways, examining the marks more carefully. There was something almost beautiful about them, these temporary tattoos of passion.
"What am I becoming?" she asked her reflection. The woman looking back at her offered no answers, only the evidence of her metamorphosis written across her skin.
The shower beckoned, promising cleanliness, normalcy. She turned the water as hot as she could bear, stepping under the spray with a gasp. Steam filled the small bathroom as she scrubbed her skin, watching the last traces of flour swirl down the drain. If only her confusion could be washed away so easily.
As she cleansed herself, a strange sadness settled over her. The marks would fade, the evidence of tonight's encounter would disappear, and she would return to being Dr. Devika, the respected professor with the absent husband. For a brief moment, she'd been someone else—someone wild and hungry and free. Someone who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to reach for it.
Water sluiced down her body, carrying away the physical traces of Ramlal's touch, but unable to erase the memory of it from her skin. When she finally emerged from the shower, pink and raw from her vigorous scrubbing, she dried herself with careful movements, then slipped into her cotton nightgown without looking in the mirror again.
In bed, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the events of the evening playing on endless loop behind her eyes. The weight of Ramlal's body against hers. The roughness of his hands. The heat of his breath. The moment when desire had given way to fear, when she'd pulled away. Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of flour and fire and hands that never stopped touching her.
---
In his small booth at the entrance to the apartment complex, Ramlal sat hunched over, his head in his hands. The night stretched endlessly before him, each minute an exercise in self-recrimination. He cursed himself in harsh whispers, each oath more biting than the last.
"Fool," he muttered, slamming his fist against the desk. "You had her right there. Right there in your hands. And you let her slip away."
The memory of Devika's body pressed against his was torture—so vivid he could still feel the softness of her hips beneath his palms. His fingers curled reflexively, as if trying to recapture the sensation of her flesh yielding to his touch.
"So soft," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Like nothing I've ever felt before."
He remembered the precise moment when she'd leaned back against him, her consent unspoken but unmistakable. The slight arch of her spine, the tilt of her head exposing the delicate curve of her neck. She had wanted him—he was certain of it. And yet, he'd moved too quickly, too roughly. He'd frightened her.
"I should have been gentler," he told the empty booth. "Should have taken my time. Removed her saree first, slowly. Then the blouse." His breathing quickened as he imagined how it might have gone differently. "She would have been vulnerable then. Exposed. She wouldn't have stopped me."
The fantasy bloomed in vivid detail—Devika's saree falling away to reveal more of her golden skin, his hands working the buttons of her blouse until it gaped open, exposing the curves he'd only felt through fabric. In his mind, she didn't pull away. In his mind, she welcomed him, encouraged him, begged for more.
"Next time," he vowed, the words a promise and a prayer. "Next time I won't waste my chance."
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his body still tense with unfulfilled desire. The taste of her skin lingered on his lips—salt and sweetness and something uniquely hers. He'd marked her, he knew. Left the imprint of his teeth on her neck, his fingers on her hips. The thought sent a surge of primitive satisfaction through him. Even now, she would be looking at those marks, touching them, remembering.
"She'll call me again," he decided, certainty growing with each moment. "She'll want more. And when she does..."
He let the thought trail off, savoring the possibilities. Next time, he wouldn't hesitate. Next time, he would take what was offered, and more. The respectable professor from Kerala had revealed a different side tonight—a woman of fire and hunger, aching to be touched. And he would be the one to touch her, to claim her, to satisfy the need she could no longer hide.
"Next time," Ramlal repeated, his voice firmer now, his resolve hardening. "I am not going to leave the opportunity. Not again."
The night deepened around him, his imagination the only company in his small security booth. Outside, the city slept, unaware of the promises being made in the darkness, the boundaries being redrawn, the hunger growing stronger with each passing hour.
# Scene 2
Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, pulling Devika from troubled dreams into consciousness. Her body felt heavy, as if she'd run a great distance in her sleep. Memory flooded back—Ramlal's hands on her waist, his teeth at her neck, the dangerous precipice she'd nearly tumbled over. She sat up with a jolt, her fingers immediately finding their way to her collarbone, searching for evidence of last night's transgression.
She hurried to the bathroom, heart pounding as she leaned toward the mirror. To her relief, the bite mark had faded to the faintest shadow, barely visible unless she knew exactly where to look. She turned, examining her hips and waist where his flour-dusted fingers had pressed and kneaded. The reddish marks there too had softened overnight, retreating like tide marks on sand, leaving her skin unmarked but somehow changed—as if the memory of touch had seeped beneath the surface.
"Thank goodness," she whispered, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Her wardrobe stood open, the sleeveless blouses hanging like silent tempters among her more modest attire. Devika's fingers hovered over the emerald green one she'd worn the day before yesterday, the one that had started this cascade of boundary-crossing. Something in her wanted to continue the experiment, to feel men's eyes on her exposed skin again, to wield that strange, intoxicating power she'd discovered.
But another part—the cautious academic who had built her reputation on competence and dignity—urged restraint. She had ventured too far, too fast. It was time to retreat, to reassess, to remember who she was supposed to be.
"Not today," she decided, selecting instead a high-necked, full-sleeved blouse in deep maroon. The fabric embraced her arms completely, a cotton armor against unwanted—or perhaps too wanted—attention.
She chose a cream-colored saree with a simple gold border, dbanging it with practiced movements, making sure the pallu covered her shoulders fully. As she fastened her mangalsutra around her neck, she remembered Seenu's fingers fumbling with the clasp, his breath hot against her skin. So many boundaries crossed in such a short time. She needed to find her footing again, to remember who Dr. Devika was before all this began.
The college corridors felt different this morning—quieter, more subdued. Devika made her way to the staff room, nodding at students who greeted her with their usual respect. Inside, she immediately noticed Saradha's absence. Her friend's desk sat empty, her colorful shawl missing from the chair back where it usually hung.
"Dr. Devika," called Professor Mehta from across the room. "Saradha called in sick today. Some stomach bug, she said."
Devika nodded her thanks for the information while a small wave of vulnerability washed over her. Without Saradha's protective chatter and companionship, she felt exposed, as if everyone could somehow see through her modest attire to the woman who had pressed herself against the security guard just hours ago.
She settled at her desk, arranging her papers with mechanical precision, trying to lose herself in the familiar routine of academic work. The lab equipment requisition forms demanded her attention, a welcome distraction from the memories that kept surfacing like bubbles in boiling water.
"Excuse me, madam?"
The voice—male, weathered, with the distinctive local accent—broke through her concentration. Devika looked up to find an older man standing before her desk, his hands clasped respectfully at his waist. He wore the college's peon uniform, the khaki fabric pressed into neat creases. His beard was a study in contrasts—dark hairs interspersed with gray, untidy yet somehow dignified. Behind thick glasses, his eyes crinkled at the corners, crow's feet speaking of decades spent under the harsh Indian sun.
"Yes?" she replied, setting down her pen.
"Good morning, madam. I am Ganapathi. Ganapathi Rao." He offered a small bow, his back bending with the stiffness of age. "I have joined as new peon for science department."
"Oh, I see. Good morning, Mr. Rao." Devika nodded politely. "Welcome to the college."
"Thank you, madam." His eyes moved over her face with unconcealed interest, lingering longer than strictly professional. "I am coming to introduce myself to all faculty members. Principal sir told me to meet everyone."
"That's very thoughtful," she said, feeling a strange discomfort under his persistent gaze.
Ganapathi didn't move away as expected. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Madam, if you don't mind me asking, you are not from Maharashtra, yes?"
The question surprised her. "No, I'm from Kerala. I moved here when I got the position."
His face brightened, as if he'd solved a particularly challenging puzzle. "Ah! Kerala! I knew it. You are looking too beautiful to be local Pune woman."
Devika blinked, taken aback by the directness of the compliment. "I'm sorry?"
"Kerala women have special beauty," he continued, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. "Different complexion, different features. No Pune women look like you, madam. When I saw you, my heart beat very fast. I thought, 'who is this beautiful lady?'"
His frankness was disarming, delivered with such matter-of-fact sincerity that it was difficult to take offense. Still, Devika felt her cheeks warm at his unfiltered admiration.
"That's... very kind of you to say," she managed, unsure how to respond to such direct praise from a man old enough to be her father.
"Not kind, madam. Only truth." Ganapathi nodded emphatically, his beard bobbing with the movement. "Kerala women famous for beauty. But you are exceptional even among them."
Devika glanced around, hoping someone might interrupt this increasingly awkward conversation, but the other faculty members were engrossed in their own work.
"Well, thank you for introducing yourself," she said, trying to bring the interaction to a close. "I'm sure you have other faculty members to meet."
"Yes, yes," Ganapathi agreed, though he made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping even further. "Madam, if you require any help, anything at all, please ask for Ganapathi. I am expert in solving all problems for faculty."
There was something in his tone—a weight to the words 'anything at all'—that made Devika wonder if she was reading too much into a simple offer of assistance. After the events of the past few days, perhaps she was seeing hidden meanings where none existed.
"I'll keep that in mind, thank you," she said, picking up her pen again in a clear signal that the conversation was over.
"No need for thanks, madam. It is my duty." He finally straightened, preparing to leave. "And my pleasure," he added, with a small smile that revealed teeth stained dark red from years of paan chewing.
As Ganapathi moved away, Devika exhaled slowly. What was happening to her life? First Seenu, then her students, then Ramlal, and now this elderly peon—all of them looking at her with that same hungry gaze. Had something fundamentally changed about her, some invisible signal she was now broadcasting? Or had it always been there, and she'd only just become aware of it?
She returned to her forms, but concentration proved elusive. The memory of Ganapathi's admiring gaze lingered, joining the ghostly sensations of Ramlal's hands on her waist, Pathan's face against her navel, Seenu's fingers at her neck. Different men, different touches, different transgressions—yet all connected by a thread of desire that seemed to be weaving itself through the fabric of her life, creating a pattern she couldn't yet decipher.
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