25-06-2025, 12:36 AM
(This post was last modified: 25-06-2025, 07:53 AM by prady12191. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Devika's heart hammered against her ribs as she pushed through the staff room door, her fingers clutching the edge of her saree pallu like a shield. Only when she was safely inside, back pressed against the cool wood, did she allow herself to look down at her waist. There, seeping through the cream-colored fabric, were unmistakable reddish stains—Seenu's paan-laced saliva marking her like a scarlet confession. She had to get to the washroom before anyone else noticed.
She slipped back into the corridor, walking quickly with her pallu pressed tight against her body. The female faculty washroom was mercifully empty. Inside a stall, she unwrapped her saree with trembling hands and examined the damage. The stains had spread, rust-colored blotches against cream silk, impossible to explain away as anything innocent. But worse was what she discovered when she pulled aside the fabric—her navel itself bore the evidence of Seenu's frenzy, the small depression stained with the rusty residue of paan, the surrounding skin reddened from the suction of his hungry mouth.
"Oh God," she whispered, reaching for tissues to wet under the faucet. The cool water against her skin made her flinch, not from discomfort but from the way it reawakened the ghost-sensation of his tongue circling her navel, penetrating that intimate hollow with obscene persistence.
She scrubbed at her skin, watching the water turn pink as it spiraled down the drain. Yet even as she cleansed away the physical evidence, the sensation remained—the heat of his breath, the wetness of his mouth, the scbang of his teeth against the tender flesh of her stomach. No amount of water could wash away the memory of his words: "Your navel deserves worship. I want to fill it with my essence, mark it as mine."
Her hands stilled, tissue paper disintegrating against her damp skin. How had she allowed this to happen? She had intended to play with fire, to feel its warmth, not to be consumed by its flames. Yet something in her had responded to his frenzy, had thrilled at the desperation with which he'd devoured her. She'd stopped him, yes, but not before her body had betrayed her with its response—that liquid heat between her thighs, that shameful arching toward his mouth.
When her skin was clean again and the stains on her saree rinsed as well as possible, Devika returned to the staff room. Water droplets clung to her midriff beneath the damp fabric, making her shiver despite the room's humidity. She sat at her desk and pulled a stack of papers toward her—lab reports waiting to be graded—but the words swam before her eyes, refusing to coalesce into meaning.
Instead, her mind replayed the scene in Seenu's office like a film she couldn't switch off. The pretense of helping with her saree. The deliberate vulnerability she'd created. The moment his control had shattered and he'd fallen to his knees before her, his office transformed into a temple where her body was the idol he worshipped. She remembered standing there, partially undressed, her high-necked blouse suddenly seeming obscene in its contrast with her exposed midriff. The way his hands had pushed beneath her petticoat while tucking the pleats, lingering longer than necessary against the warmth of her lower abdomen.
His tongue, hot and insistent, circling her navel, then pushing inside with rhythmic motions that mimicked a more intimate act. The sudden, shocking sensation when he'd spat into that small depression, his saliva pooling there before he lapped it up again, ensuring his essence penetrated that intimate hollow.
"Madam? Are you all right?"
Devika startled from her reverie to find Ganapathi standing beside her desk, his thick glasses magnifying the concern in his eyes. Or was it something else entirely? Knowledge, perhaps. Or curiosity.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, straightening the papers before her. "Just a bit tired."
"I saw you coming from HOD sir's office earlier," he said, his voice lowered conspiratorially. "Your saree had some stains. Paan stains, I think. Is everything okay?"
Heat flooded her face, embarrassment warring with indignation at his presumption. "It was nothing," she managed, not meeting his eyes. "Just... spilled something. On my clothes."
"Ah," Ganapathi nodded, his expression suggesting he understood far more than she'd said. "These things happen sometimes. No need to worry." He paused, then added, "If you need any help cleaning it properly, my wife knows a special method for removing paan stains from silk. Very effective."
"No, thank you. I've taken care of it." Her voice came out sharper than intended.
He lingered a moment longer, his gaze traveling over her face with uncomfortable intensity before he finally nodded and stepped back. "As you wish, madam. Please let me know if you need anything else."
As he walked away, confusion evident in the stiffness of his shoulders, Devika realized she couldn't face the practical class that afternoon. The thought of standing before Pathan and Vishnu, maintaining professional composure while feeling so utterly disheveled inside, was beyond her capabilities today.
She pulled out her phone and sent a brief message to the department secretary, asking her to post a notice canceling the practical session due to "unforeseen circumstances." The decision brought immediate relief, though she could imagine the disappointment on Pathan's and Vishnu's faces. Perhaps disappointment wasn't the right word—frustration, more likely. They would miss another opportunity to watch her, to let their eyes wander over her body, to find excuses for proximity in the guise of academic instruction.
The afternoon passed in a haze of half-completed tasks and fragmented thoughts. When the final bell rang, Devika gathered her things and left quickly, avoiding eye contact with colleagues who might inquire about her canceled class.
The evening air was thick with impending rain as she approached her apartment building. Ramlal sat at his security desk, looking up from his newspaper as she passed. His smile revealed teeth stained with paan, a rusty echo of the marks Seenu had left on her body.
"Good evening, madam," he called, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.
Devika fixed him with a mock-stern look, her eyes communicating both remembrance of their encounter and a warning not to mention it aloud. He responded with an apologetic dip of his head, his eyes asking forgiveness for overstepping his bounds in her kitchen.
Despite herself, she offered a small smile in return before continuing to her flat. Some boundaries had been crossed, yes, but at least Ramlal had respected her final "no." The same couldn't be said for Seenu.
In the privacy of her bathroom, Devika undressed completely, examining her body as if it belonged to someone else. The waistband of her petticoat revealed a faint reddish stain where Seenu's saliva had seeped beneath the fabric. Her hips bore the ghost-impressions of Ramlal's fingers, subtle shadows that might have been imaginary but felt painfully real to her touch. And her navel—though clean now—still seemed to pulse with the memory of Seenu's aggressive attentions.
"What's wrong with these men?" she murmured, tracing the invisible marks with her fingertips. "They act like they've never touched a woman before." Wild, desperate, rough—so different from Anand's careful, infrequent lovemaking.
Yet even as she framed the thought as criticism, Devika recognized the truth she was dancing around: part of her had responded to their raw hunger, their unfiltered desire. Anand had never looked at her the way Seenu had today, had never touched her with the desperate need that had guided Ramlal's hands as they kneaded her flesh.
That night, she left her phone silent on the bedside table, making no call to Ramlal despite the emptiness of her apartment. Her body needed rest, needed to process these new sensations before she invited more. As she drifted toward sleep, her fingers found their way to her navel, circling the small depression in unconscious echo of another's tongue, her dreams already preparing to replay the day's transgressions in vivid, uncensored detail.
#Shopping
Saturday evening found Devika among the crowded stalls of Tulsi Baug market, her fingers skimming over displays of colorful bangles as if their cool touch might erase the memory of Seenu's mouth against her skin. Two days had passed since that moment in his office, yet the sensation lingered—his tongue probing her navel, the red-tinged saliva marking her like a brand. She had scrubbed at her skin until it turned pink, had soaked her cream saree in detergent overnight to remove the stains, but nothing could wash away the knowledge that Ganapathi had seen, had understood with a single glance what had transpired between her and the department head.
Shopping had always been her refuge, a simple pleasure that required nothing but decision-making within clear parameters. Today she had chosen a midnight-blue saree with silver threadwork—and, despite her lingering shame from Thursday's events, another sleeveless blouse. This one was cobalt, cut to expose her arms to the evening air. She couldn't explain, even to herself, why she continued to dress this way after what had happened. Perhaps it was defiance, a refusal to be cowed by Seenu's actions. Perhaps it was something darker, a current of desire she was still learning to navigate.
"Just these, please," she told the vendor, selecting a pair of silver earrings shaped like jasmine buds. She'd tried calling Saradha earlier, hoping her friend might join her, but there had been no answer. The absence left her feeling oddly untethered, as if without Saradha's grounding influence, she might drift into dangerous waters once more.
The market hummed with pre-monsoon energy—vendors calling out last-minute discounts, shoppers haggling with increased urgency. Devika moved through the narrow lanes, adding items to her canvas bag: sandalwood soap from the Mysore shop, fresh turmeric root for medicinal tea, a new steel water bottle to replace one she'd left behind in the laboratory. Each purchase felt like a small affirmation of normalcy, a step back toward the careful, deliberate woman she had been before.
She was examining a display of notebooks when the first drop fell—fat and warm against her exposed shoulder, leaving a perfect dark circle on her saree. She glanced up at the sky, visible in jagged patches between market canopies. The blue of afternoon had vanished, replaced by roiling clouds the color of bruised fruit.
"Storm coming, madam," the notebook seller warned, already pulling plastic sheets over his wares. "Big one. Better finish quickly."
Devika nodded, selecting a leather-bound journal before moving toward the main road. The second drop fell as she paid, then the third, and suddenly the air was filled with the percussion of water hitting canvas and tin. Within minutes, the gentle warning had transformed into a deluge.
"I'll take these," she said hurriedly to the cashier at the general store, adding her final purchases—incense sticks and a packet of coffee—to her already full bag. The man nodded, counting out her change with damp fingers as water began to leak through the tarpaulin overhead.
By the time she stepped outside, clutching her shopping bag to her chest, the market had become a different world. Rain pounded the streets, flooding the gutters and transforming the packed dirt between stalls into treacherous mud. Wind whipped through the alleyways, tearing at banners and sending light items tumbling along the ground. In the distance, a sharp crack announced a tree limb giving way.
People streamed past her, heads covered with newspapers, plastic bags, whatever they could find. A woman ran by holding her sandals in one hand, a crying child in the other. A man shouted something about the bridge being flooded. Devika stood frozen for a moment, water plastering her saree against her skin, uncertainty paralyzing her as she watched the exodus.
"Auto! Auto!" she called, waving at a passing vehicle, but the driver shook his head without slowing. Three more passed the same way, windows fogged, passengers crammed inside like sardines. The rain intensified, running in rivulets down her arms, weighing down her saree until it clung to every curve. Her hair escaped its careful bun, plastering itself against her neck in dark, wet ropes.
Devika fumbled in her purse for her phone, ducking under a shop awning that offered minimal shelter. The screen lit up beneath a film of water droplets. One bar of signal flickered uncertainly as she opened the ride-sharing app. "Searching for drivers," it announced, the loading circle spinning endlessly as she watched. After two minutes, a message appeared: "No drivers available in your area. Please try again later."
"Come on," she muttered, dialing Saradha's number instead. The call failed immediately, the network overwhelmed by the storm. Around her, the street was transforming into a shallow river, water rising to cover her ankles. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene in stark white, followed seconds later by thunder that she felt in her chest.
Panic rose in her throat. Her apartment was at least four kilometers away, an impossible distance to walk in this weather. Another tree branch crashed somewhere nearby, followed by shouts. The few remaining pedestrians moved with increasing desperation, no longer concerned with staying dry but simply with reaching safety.
Through sheets of rain, Devika spotted approaching headlights—a yellow auto-rickshaw lurching through the flooded street, its small engine whining in protest. She stepped into the road, waving both arms frantically.
"Please stop!" she called over the roar of rain. To her surprise, the vehicle swerved toward her, slowing as it approached.
"Where to?" the driver shouted, his face barely visible beneath a plastic sheet he'd dbangd over his head.
"Koregaon Park," she replied, relief flooding through her. "Near the Vaswani junction."
The driver shook his head. "Can't do direct route. Roads flooded. Have to go around." He jerked his thumb toward the already packed passenger compartment. "Last auto going that direction tonight. Get in."
Devika peered inside. The small space designed for three passengers now held at least six—men pressed shoulder to shoulder, some practically sitting on others' laps. They stared back at her, water dripping from their clothes, expressions ranging from exhaustion to curiosity at the sight of a woman alone in the storm.
"There's no room," she said, stepping back.
"Adjust, madam," the driver insisted. "No more autos coming. Roads getting worse. You want to go or not?"
A flash of lightning illuminated the desperate scene—the flooding street, the whipping trees, the abandoned market stalls. She couldn't stay here, and she couldn't walk home. Devika hesitated, weighing impossible options.
"Madam! Madam Devika!" A voice called from within the auto. She squinted through the rain, recognizing with a start the gray-bearded face of Ganapathi, the college peon who had witnessed her shame just days before. He was wedged into the far corner of the auto, raising a hand in greeting.
"Come, madam! This is last auto!" he called, his voice carrying an odd note of excitement beneath the concern.
The driver grew impatient. "Decide fast. Need to go before roads completely flood."
"But there's no place to sit," Devika protested, though she was already moving closer to the auto, driven by the growing fear of being stranded.
"Sit on someone's lap," the driver said matter-of-factly. "No choice. Everyone adjusting tonight."
The men inside shifted, creating a marginal space, but it was clear there was no room for her to stand or sit conventionally. Devika's heart pounded against her ribs. The thought of pressing herself against these strangers, of allowing such intimate contact, sent waves of anxiety through her body. Yet the alternatives seemed increasingly dire as the water rose around her ankles.
Her eyes met Ganapathi's. Despite their brief acquaintance, he represented something familiar in this chaos—a connection, however tenuous, to her normal life. He smiled at her, his thick glasses speckled with raindrops, his uniform darkened by water.
"You can sit here, madam," he said, patting his lap with an eagerness that might have given her pause under different circumstances. "I don't mind. Better than staying in this flood, yes?"
The other men watched this exchange with poorly concealed interest, their eyes moving between Devika's drenched form and the older peon. A distant crash of thunder seemed to make the decision for her.
"If you don't mind," she said, stepping toward the auto, her voice nearly lost in the downpour. "I have no other way to get home."
Ganapathi's eyes widened behind his glasses, as if he couldn't quite believe she had agreed. He shifted in his seat, pressing himself further into the corner to make space for her, his weathered hands already reaching to help her board the crowded vehicle.
"Come, madam," he said, his voice thick with an emotion she chose not to identify. "I will make sure you reach home safely."
The first shock came from his bony knees pressing into the backs of her thighs as she lowered herself onto Ganapathi's lap. Devika bit her lip, steadying herself against the roof of the auto as the driver accelerated through the flooded street. Water streamed from her saree, pooling where their bodies met, creating a cold, clammy connection between them. Behind her, she felt Ganapathi's shallow breathing, the slight tremor in his hands as they hovered uncertainly near her hips. His damp uniform soaked through her saree where her back pressed against his chest, while her wet hair dripped onto his face—an unwanted intimacy forced by circumstance.
"Sorry," she murmured, trying to shift her weight to find a less awkward position. The auto lurched through a pothole, sending her sliding backward against him. Ganapathi released a soft sound—half grunt, half something else entirely—that raised goosebumps on her rain-chilled skin.
The other passengers stared ahead with forced indifference, though she caught their sidelong glances in the flashes of lightning that illuminated the cramped interior. Her wet petticoat clung to her thighs, the fabric rendered nearly transparent by the rain. She tugged at her saree, trying to create a barrier between herself and the old man, but the sodden silk refused to cooperate, instead molding itself to the contours of her body like a second skin.
"You're sitting awkwardly, madam," Ganapathi said suddenly, his voice close to her ear. "You might fall."
Before she could respond, his arms encircled her waist, fingers splaying across her bare midriff where her saree had slipped. The contact drew an involuntary gasp from her lips—his hands were surprisingly hot against her rain-cooled skin.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, tense beneath his touch.
"Helping you sit properly," he replied, his voice deceptively innocent. With startling strength, he lifted her slightly, pulling her deeper into his lap. Her body slid backward until her buttocks pressed firmly against his stomach, her shoulder blades meeting his chest.
"Ah!" The sound escaped her before she could stop it, drawing curious glances from the other passengers. Ganapathi's hands remained on her stomach, fingers pressing into the soft folds where her waist creased as she sat.
"Better now?" he asked, his breath warm against her neck. "More stable."
Devika wrapped her fingers around his wrists, intending to remove his hands, but his grip remained firm. "Ganapathi, please," she began, tugging ineffectually at his thick forearms.
"Madam, let me support you," he murmured, lips closer to her ear than necessary. "Or you may fall when the auto moves. Very dangerous in this weather."
She couldn't argue with the logic, though she suspected his motives had little to do with her safety. Still, she had no leverage in this position, no way to extricate herself without causing a scene. Reluctantly, she loosened her grip on his wrists, allowing his hands to remain against her stomach.
"Such soft waist," he whispered, the words nearly lost in the drumming of rain against the auto's canvas roof. His thumbs moved in small circles against her skin, each rotation venturing slightly higher toward the underside of her breasts.
The auto swerved suddenly, navigating around a fallen branch. The violent motion threw Devika sideways, her thighs and buttocks sliding across Ganapathi's lap in an inadvertent caress. Beneath her, she felt something firm beginning to press against her—an unmistakable hardness that made her stomach clench with revulsion and something more complicated.
"Ah," Ganapathi groaned, the sound muffled as if he were trying to contain it. His hands left her stomach abruptly, moving instead to grasp her bare arms. "What happened?" she asked, though she knew perfectly well.
"Nothing, nothing," he mumbled, his calloused fingers encircling her upper arms. "Feeling cold. Need some heat."
The claim was absurd—despite the rain, the air was humid and warm, made more so by the press of bodies in the confined space. His palms slid up and down her arms, rough skin catching against her smoothness.
"Madam, your arms are so soft," he marveled, squeezing gently as if testing their firmness.
Devika said nothing, focusing instead on the view through the plastic window—buildings blurring in the rain, street lights creating watery halos in the darkness. She tried to ignore the gradual swelling she felt beneath her, the way Ganapathi's body responded to her proximity despite the uncomfortable circumstances, perhaps even because of them.
The hardness pressed more insistently against her as the minutes passed. Ganapathi shifted beneath her, his breathing growing heavier. He leaned forward slightly, his beard tickling her shoulder as he moved his face closer to her skin. She felt his hot breath first, then the shocking press of his lips against her bare shoulder where the sleeveless blouse left her exposed.
Devika jerked at the contact. "Ah! Please, Ganapathi," she protested, twisting to look at him.
"Please, madam," he echoed, his voice thick with desire. "I can't control." His hands abandoned her arms, returning to her midriff with new urgency. This time, his fingers sought the gap between saree and blouse, slipping beneath the fabric to touch her bare stomach directly.
She grabbed his wrists again, trying to stop his exploration, but his fingers were already pressing into her flesh, kneading like he was working dough. "Stop," she whispered, but the word lacked conviction. Despite her mind's resistance, her body responded to his touch with treacherous warmth. The weeks of awakening desire, of boundaries crossed with Seenu, with Ramlal, with her students, had left her confused about her own reactions.
Ganapathi's right hand covered hers where she gripped his wrist, his left continuing its exploration of her midriff. His fingers found her navel, circling the small depression before pressing into it. The touch sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure through her body, a lightning strike of sensation that connected her navel to the growing wetness between her thighs.
"Ganapathi, stop," she moaned, the protest undermined by the way her body arched slightly into his touch. She could feel her control slipping away, here in this crowded auto with strangers watching from the corners of their eyes, with rain hammering down and thunder cracking overhead.
"Such a sexy Kerala woman," he murmured against her shoulder, his lips forming the words directly against her skin. His teeth grazed her, not quite a bite but a promise of one. His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the underside of her breast through her wet blouse, finding the edge of her black bra where it had slipped into visibility.
The touch ignited something in Devika—panic mingled with a dark, unwanted desire. Without conscious thought, she found herself shifting on his lap, her hips making small, circular movements against the hardness beneath her. Ganapathi responded with a guttural sound, his hands growing bolder, one squeezing her waist with bruising force while the other sought the gap between her saree and petticoat, fingers probing downward.
"No," she gasped, grabbing his hand as it attempted to slide beneath her waistband. His strength surprised her—despite her resistance, his fingers continued their determined exploration, seeking the source of heat they both could feel.
Just as his fingertips breached the edge of her petticoat, the auto gave a violent lurch, then a grinding metallic shriek. The vehicle tilted dramatically to one side before coming to a complete stop, engine sputtering into silence. The sudden cessation of movement threw everyone forward, breaking the trance of the moment.
"What happened?" someone called from the front of the auto.
The driver cursed, slapping the dashboard. "Axle broken. Can't go further." He twisted in his seat to face the passengers, his expression grim in the dim light. "Too much water on road. Auto can't move now."
A chorus of protests erupted from the other passengers. Devika sat frozen on Ganapathi's lap, his hand still half-tucked into her waistband, both of them breathing heavily. As the reality of their situation penetrated the fog of unwanted arousal, a cold dread settled in her stomach. They were stranded in the middle of the storm, kilometers from her home.
Ganapathi's hands withdrew slowly from her body as the other passengers began to exit the auto, cursing the weather and discussing alternate routes home. The spell broken, Devika felt a rush of shame flood through her. What had she been doing? What had she allowed?
"Madam," Ganapathi's voice came from behind her, softer now, almost apologetic. "We should get out too. Find shelter somewhere."
She couldn't bring herself to look at him as she gathered her shopping bag, now soaked through from the rain that had leaked into the auto. Outside, the storm continued unabated, water rushing ankle-deep through the street. Night had fallen completely, the darkness broken only by distant streetlights and occasional flashes of lightning.
Devika stepped out into the rain, immediately drenched again, her saree clinging to her curves. Ganapathi followed, standing close beside her in the downpour. They faced each other in silence, the intimacy of moments before hanging between them like a physical presence, both knowing that whatever happened next would not be erased by the storm's cleansing waters.
She slipped back into the corridor, walking quickly with her pallu pressed tight against her body. The female faculty washroom was mercifully empty. Inside a stall, she unwrapped her saree with trembling hands and examined the damage. The stains had spread, rust-colored blotches against cream silk, impossible to explain away as anything innocent. But worse was what she discovered when she pulled aside the fabric—her navel itself bore the evidence of Seenu's frenzy, the small depression stained with the rusty residue of paan, the surrounding skin reddened from the suction of his hungry mouth.
"Oh God," she whispered, reaching for tissues to wet under the faucet. The cool water against her skin made her flinch, not from discomfort but from the way it reawakened the ghost-sensation of his tongue circling her navel, penetrating that intimate hollow with obscene persistence.
She scrubbed at her skin, watching the water turn pink as it spiraled down the drain. Yet even as she cleansed away the physical evidence, the sensation remained—the heat of his breath, the wetness of his mouth, the scbang of his teeth against the tender flesh of her stomach. No amount of water could wash away the memory of his words: "Your navel deserves worship. I want to fill it with my essence, mark it as mine."
Her hands stilled, tissue paper disintegrating against her damp skin. How had she allowed this to happen? She had intended to play with fire, to feel its warmth, not to be consumed by its flames. Yet something in her had responded to his frenzy, had thrilled at the desperation with which he'd devoured her. She'd stopped him, yes, but not before her body had betrayed her with its response—that liquid heat between her thighs, that shameful arching toward his mouth.
When her skin was clean again and the stains on her saree rinsed as well as possible, Devika returned to the staff room. Water droplets clung to her midriff beneath the damp fabric, making her shiver despite the room's humidity. She sat at her desk and pulled a stack of papers toward her—lab reports waiting to be graded—but the words swam before her eyes, refusing to coalesce into meaning.
Instead, her mind replayed the scene in Seenu's office like a film she couldn't switch off. The pretense of helping with her saree. The deliberate vulnerability she'd created. The moment his control had shattered and he'd fallen to his knees before her, his office transformed into a temple where her body was the idol he worshipped. She remembered standing there, partially undressed, her high-necked blouse suddenly seeming obscene in its contrast with her exposed midriff. The way his hands had pushed beneath her petticoat while tucking the pleats, lingering longer than necessary against the warmth of her lower abdomen.
His tongue, hot and insistent, circling her navel, then pushing inside with rhythmic motions that mimicked a more intimate act. The sudden, shocking sensation when he'd spat into that small depression, his saliva pooling there before he lapped it up again, ensuring his essence penetrated that intimate hollow.
"Madam? Are you all right?"
Devika startled from her reverie to find Ganapathi standing beside her desk, his thick glasses magnifying the concern in his eyes. Or was it something else entirely? Knowledge, perhaps. Or curiosity.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, straightening the papers before her. "Just a bit tired."
"I saw you coming from HOD sir's office earlier," he said, his voice lowered conspiratorially. "Your saree had some stains. Paan stains, I think. Is everything okay?"
Heat flooded her face, embarrassment warring with indignation at his presumption. "It was nothing," she managed, not meeting his eyes. "Just... spilled something. On my clothes."
"Ah," Ganapathi nodded, his expression suggesting he understood far more than she'd said. "These things happen sometimes. No need to worry." He paused, then added, "If you need any help cleaning it properly, my wife knows a special method for removing paan stains from silk. Very effective."
"No, thank you. I've taken care of it." Her voice came out sharper than intended.
He lingered a moment longer, his gaze traveling over her face with uncomfortable intensity before he finally nodded and stepped back. "As you wish, madam. Please let me know if you need anything else."
As he walked away, confusion evident in the stiffness of his shoulders, Devika realized she couldn't face the practical class that afternoon. The thought of standing before Pathan and Vishnu, maintaining professional composure while feeling so utterly disheveled inside, was beyond her capabilities today.
She pulled out her phone and sent a brief message to the department secretary, asking her to post a notice canceling the practical session due to "unforeseen circumstances." The decision brought immediate relief, though she could imagine the disappointment on Pathan's and Vishnu's faces. Perhaps disappointment wasn't the right word—frustration, more likely. They would miss another opportunity to watch her, to let their eyes wander over her body, to find excuses for proximity in the guise of academic instruction.
The afternoon passed in a haze of half-completed tasks and fragmented thoughts. When the final bell rang, Devika gathered her things and left quickly, avoiding eye contact with colleagues who might inquire about her canceled class.
The evening air was thick with impending rain as she approached her apartment building. Ramlal sat at his security desk, looking up from his newspaper as she passed. His smile revealed teeth stained with paan, a rusty echo of the marks Seenu had left on her body.
"Good evening, madam," he called, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.
Devika fixed him with a mock-stern look, her eyes communicating both remembrance of their encounter and a warning not to mention it aloud. He responded with an apologetic dip of his head, his eyes asking forgiveness for overstepping his bounds in her kitchen.
Despite herself, she offered a small smile in return before continuing to her flat. Some boundaries had been crossed, yes, but at least Ramlal had respected her final "no." The same couldn't be said for Seenu.
In the privacy of her bathroom, Devika undressed completely, examining her body as if it belonged to someone else. The waistband of her petticoat revealed a faint reddish stain where Seenu's saliva had seeped beneath the fabric. Her hips bore the ghost-impressions of Ramlal's fingers, subtle shadows that might have been imaginary but felt painfully real to her touch. And her navel—though clean now—still seemed to pulse with the memory of Seenu's aggressive attentions.
"What's wrong with these men?" she murmured, tracing the invisible marks with her fingertips. "They act like they've never touched a woman before." Wild, desperate, rough—so different from Anand's careful, infrequent lovemaking.
Yet even as she framed the thought as criticism, Devika recognized the truth she was dancing around: part of her had responded to their raw hunger, their unfiltered desire. Anand had never looked at her the way Seenu had today, had never touched her with the desperate need that had guided Ramlal's hands as they kneaded her flesh.
That night, she left her phone silent on the bedside table, making no call to Ramlal despite the emptiness of her apartment. Her body needed rest, needed to process these new sensations before she invited more. As she drifted toward sleep, her fingers found their way to her navel, circling the small depression in unconscious echo of another's tongue, her dreams already preparing to replay the day's transgressions in vivid, uncensored detail.
#Shopping
Saturday evening found Devika among the crowded stalls of Tulsi Baug market, her fingers skimming over displays of colorful bangles as if their cool touch might erase the memory of Seenu's mouth against her skin. Two days had passed since that moment in his office, yet the sensation lingered—his tongue probing her navel, the red-tinged saliva marking her like a brand. She had scrubbed at her skin until it turned pink, had soaked her cream saree in detergent overnight to remove the stains, but nothing could wash away the knowledge that Ganapathi had seen, had understood with a single glance what had transpired between her and the department head.
Shopping had always been her refuge, a simple pleasure that required nothing but decision-making within clear parameters. Today she had chosen a midnight-blue saree with silver threadwork—and, despite her lingering shame from Thursday's events, another sleeveless blouse. This one was cobalt, cut to expose her arms to the evening air. She couldn't explain, even to herself, why she continued to dress this way after what had happened. Perhaps it was defiance, a refusal to be cowed by Seenu's actions. Perhaps it was something darker, a current of desire she was still learning to navigate.
"Just these, please," she told the vendor, selecting a pair of silver earrings shaped like jasmine buds. She'd tried calling Saradha earlier, hoping her friend might join her, but there had been no answer. The absence left her feeling oddly untethered, as if without Saradha's grounding influence, she might drift into dangerous waters once more.
The market hummed with pre-monsoon energy—vendors calling out last-minute discounts, shoppers haggling with increased urgency. Devika moved through the narrow lanes, adding items to her canvas bag: sandalwood soap from the Mysore shop, fresh turmeric root for medicinal tea, a new steel water bottle to replace one she'd left behind in the laboratory. Each purchase felt like a small affirmation of normalcy, a step back toward the careful, deliberate woman she had been before.
She was examining a display of notebooks when the first drop fell—fat and warm against her exposed shoulder, leaving a perfect dark circle on her saree. She glanced up at the sky, visible in jagged patches between market canopies. The blue of afternoon had vanished, replaced by roiling clouds the color of bruised fruit.
"Storm coming, madam," the notebook seller warned, already pulling plastic sheets over his wares. "Big one. Better finish quickly."
Devika nodded, selecting a leather-bound journal before moving toward the main road. The second drop fell as she paid, then the third, and suddenly the air was filled with the percussion of water hitting canvas and tin. Within minutes, the gentle warning had transformed into a deluge.
"I'll take these," she said hurriedly to the cashier at the general store, adding her final purchases—incense sticks and a packet of coffee—to her already full bag. The man nodded, counting out her change with damp fingers as water began to leak through the tarpaulin overhead.
By the time she stepped outside, clutching her shopping bag to her chest, the market had become a different world. Rain pounded the streets, flooding the gutters and transforming the packed dirt between stalls into treacherous mud. Wind whipped through the alleyways, tearing at banners and sending light items tumbling along the ground. In the distance, a sharp crack announced a tree limb giving way.
People streamed past her, heads covered with newspapers, plastic bags, whatever they could find. A woman ran by holding her sandals in one hand, a crying child in the other. A man shouted something about the bridge being flooded. Devika stood frozen for a moment, water plastering her saree against her skin, uncertainty paralyzing her as she watched the exodus.
"Auto! Auto!" she called, waving at a passing vehicle, but the driver shook his head without slowing. Three more passed the same way, windows fogged, passengers crammed inside like sardines. The rain intensified, running in rivulets down her arms, weighing down her saree until it clung to every curve. Her hair escaped its careful bun, plastering itself against her neck in dark, wet ropes.
Devika fumbled in her purse for her phone, ducking under a shop awning that offered minimal shelter. The screen lit up beneath a film of water droplets. One bar of signal flickered uncertainly as she opened the ride-sharing app. "Searching for drivers," it announced, the loading circle spinning endlessly as she watched. After two minutes, a message appeared: "No drivers available in your area. Please try again later."
"Come on," she muttered, dialing Saradha's number instead. The call failed immediately, the network overwhelmed by the storm. Around her, the street was transforming into a shallow river, water rising to cover her ankles. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene in stark white, followed seconds later by thunder that she felt in her chest.
Panic rose in her throat. Her apartment was at least four kilometers away, an impossible distance to walk in this weather. Another tree branch crashed somewhere nearby, followed by shouts. The few remaining pedestrians moved with increasing desperation, no longer concerned with staying dry but simply with reaching safety.
Through sheets of rain, Devika spotted approaching headlights—a yellow auto-rickshaw lurching through the flooded street, its small engine whining in protest. She stepped into the road, waving both arms frantically.
"Please stop!" she called over the roar of rain. To her surprise, the vehicle swerved toward her, slowing as it approached.
"Where to?" the driver shouted, his face barely visible beneath a plastic sheet he'd dbangd over his head.
"Koregaon Park," she replied, relief flooding through her. "Near the Vaswani junction."
The driver shook his head. "Can't do direct route. Roads flooded. Have to go around." He jerked his thumb toward the already packed passenger compartment. "Last auto going that direction tonight. Get in."
Devika peered inside. The small space designed for three passengers now held at least six—men pressed shoulder to shoulder, some practically sitting on others' laps. They stared back at her, water dripping from their clothes, expressions ranging from exhaustion to curiosity at the sight of a woman alone in the storm.
"There's no room," she said, stepping back.
"Adjust, madam," the driver insisted. "No more autos coming. Roads getting worse. You want to go or not?"
A flash of lightning illuminated the desperate scene—the flooding street, the whipping trees, the abandoned market stalls. She couldn't stay here, and she couldn't walk home. Devika hesitated, weighing impossible options.
"Madam! Madam Devika!" A voice called from within the auto. She squinted through the rain, recognizing with a start the gray-bearded face of Ganapathi, the college peon who had witnessed her shame just days before. He was wedged into the far corner of the auto, raising a hand in greeting.
"Come, madam! This is last auto!" he called, his voice carrying an odd note of excitement beneath the concern.
The driver grew impatient. "Decide fast. Need to go before roads completely flood."
"But there's no place to sit," Devika protested, though she was already moving closer to the auto, driven by the growing fear of being stranded.
"Sit on someone's lap," the driver said matter-of-factly. "No choice. Everyone adjusting tonight."
The men inside shifted, creating a marginal space, but it was clear there was no room for her to stand or sit conventionally. Devika's heart pounded against her ribs. The thought of pressing herself against these strangers, of allowing such intimate contact, sent waves of anxiety through her body. Yet the alternatives seemed increasingly dire as the water rose around her ankles.
Her eyes met Ganapathi's. Despite their brief acquaintance, he represented something familiar in this chaos—a connection, however tenuous, to her normal life. He smiled at her, his thick glasses speckled with raindrops, his uniform darkened by water.
"You can sit here, madam," he said, patting his lap with an eagerness that might have given her pause under different circumstances. "I don't mind. Better than staying in this flood, yes?"
The other men watched this exchange with poorly concealed interest, their eyes moving between Devika's drenched form and the older peon. A distant crash of thunder seemed to make the decision for her.
"If you don't mind," she said, stepping toward the auto, her voice nearly lost in the downpour. "I have no other way to get home."
Ganapathi's eyes widened behind his glasses, as if he couldn't quite believe she had agreed. He shifted in his seat, pressing himself further into the corner to make space for her, his weathered hands already reaching to help her board the crowded vehicle.
"Come, madam," he said, his voice thick with an emotion she chose not to identify. "I will make sure you reach home safely."
The first shock came from his bony knees pressing into the backs of her thighs as she lowered herself onto Ganapathi's lap. Devika bit her lip, steadying herself against the roof of the auto as the driver accelerated through the flooded street. Water streamed from her saree, pooling where their bodies met, creating a cold, clammy connection between them. Behind her, she felt Ganapathi's shallow breathing, the slight tremor in his hands as they hovered uncertainly near her hips. His damp uniform soaked through her saree where her back pressed against his chest, while her wet hair dripped onto his face—an unwanted intimacy forced by circumstance.
"Sorry," she murmured, trying to shift her weight to find a less awkward position. The auto lurched through a pothole, sending her sliding backward against him. Ganapathi released a soft sound—half grunt, half something else entirely—that raised goosebumps on her rain-chilled skin.
The other passengers stared ahead with forced indifference, though she caught their sidelong glances in the flashes of lightning that illuminated the cramped interior. Her wet petticoat clung to her thighs, the fabric rendered nearly transparent by the rain. She tugged at her saree, trying to create a barrier between herself and the old man, but the sodden silk refused to cooperate, instead molding itself to the contours of her body like a second skin.
"You're sitting awkwardly, madam," Ganapathi said suddenly, his voice close to her ear. "You might fall."
Before she could respond, his arms encircled her waist, fingers splaying across her bare midriff where her saree had slipped. The contact drew an involuntary gasp from her lips—his hands were surprisingly hot against her rain-cooled skin.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, tense beneath his touch.
"Helping you sit properly," he replied, his voice deceptively innocent. With startling strength, he lifted her slightly, pulling her deeper into his lap. Her body slid backward until her buttocks pressed firmly against his stomach, her shoulder blades meeting his chest.
"Ah!" The sound escaped her before she could stop it, drawing curious glances from the other passengers. Ganapathi's hands remained on her stomach, fingers pressing into the soft folds where her waist creased as she sat.
"Better now?" he asked, his breath warm against her neck. "More stable."
Devika wrapped her fingers around his wrists, intending to remove his hands, but his grip remained firm. "Ganapathi, please," she began, tugging ineffectually at his thick forearms.
"Madam, let me support you," he murmured, lips closer to her ear than necessary. "Or you may fall when the auto moves. Very dangerous in this weather."
She couldn't argue with the logic, though she suspected his motives had little to do with her safety. Still, she had no leverage in this position, no way to extricate herself without causing a scene. Reluctantly, she loosened her grip on his wrists, allowing his hands to remain against her stomach.
"Such soft waist," he whispered, the words nearly lost in the drumming of rain against the auto's canvas roof. His thumbs moved in small circles against her skin, each rotation venturing slightly higher toward the underside of her breasts.
The auto swerved suddenly, navigating around a fallen branch. The violent motion threw Devika sideways, her thighs and buttocks sliding across Ganapathi's lap in an inadvertent caress. Beneath her, she felt something firm beginning to press against her—an unmistakable hardness that made her stomach clench with revulsion and something more complicated.
"Ah," Ganapathi groaned, the sound muffled as if he were trying to contain it. His hands left her stomach abruptly, moving instead to grasp her bare arms. "What happened?" she asked, though she knew perfectly well.
"Nothing, nothing," he mumbled, his calloused fingers encircling her upper arms. "Feeling cold. Need some heat."
The claim was absurd—despite the rain, the air was humid and warm, made more so by the press of bodies in the confined space. His palms slid up and down her arms, rough skin catching against her smoothness.
"Madam, your arms are so soft," he marveled, squeezing gently as if testing their firmness.
Devika said nothing, focusing instead on the view through the plastic window—buildings blurring in the rain, street lights creating watery halos in the darkness. She tried to ignore the gradual swelling she felt beneath her, the way Ganapathi's body responded to her proximity despite the uncomfortable circumstances, perhaps even because of them.
The hardness pressed more insistently against her as the minutes passed. Ganapathi shifted beneath her, his breathing growing heavier. He leaned forward slightly, his beard tickling her shoulder as he moved his face closer to her skin. She felt his hot breath first, then the shocking press of his lips against her bare shoulder where the sleeveless blouse left her exposed.
Devika jerked at the contact. "Ah! Please, Ganapathi," she protested, twisting to look at him.
"Please, madam," he echoed, his voice thick with desire. "I can't control." His hands abandoned her arms, returning to her midriff with new urgency. This time, his fingers sought the gap between saree and blouse, slipping beneath the fabric to touch her bare stomach directly.
She grabbed his wrists again, trying to stop his exploration, but his fingers were already pressing into her flesh, kneading like he was working dough. "Stop," she whispered, but the word lacked conviction. Despite her mind's resistance, her body responded to his touch with treacherous warmth. The weeks of awakening desire, of boundaries crossed with Seenu, with Ramlal, with her students, had left her confused about her own reactions.
Ganapathi's right hand covered hers where she gripped his wrist, his left continuing its exploration of her midriff. His fingers found her navel, circling the small depression before pressing into it. The touch sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure through her body, a lightning strike of sensation that connected her navel to the growing wetness between her thighs.
"Ganapathi, stop," she moaned, the protest undermined by the way her body arched slightly into his touch. She could feel her control slipping away, here in this crowded auto with strangers watching from the corners of their eyes, with rain hammering down and thunder cracking overhead.
"Such a sexy Kerala woman," he murmured against her shoulder, his lips forming the words directly against her skin. His teeth grazed her, not quite a bite but a promise of one. His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the underside of her breast through her wet blouse, finding the edge of her black bra where it had slipped into visibility.
The touch ignited something in Devika—panic mingled with a dark, unwanted desire. Without conscious thought, she found herself shifting on his lap, her hips making small, circular movements against the hardness beneath her. Ganapathi responded with a guttural sound, his hands growing bolder, one squeezing her waist with bruising force while the other sought the gap between her saree and petticoat, fingers probing downward.
"No," she gasped, grabbing his hand as it attempted to slide beneath her waistband. His strength surprised her—despite her resistance, his fingers continued their determined exploration, seeking the source of heat they both could feel.
Just as his fingertips breached the edge of her petticoat, the auto gave a violent lurch, then a grinding metallic shriek. The vehicle tilted dramatically to one side before coming to a complete stop, engine sputtering into silence. The sudden cessation of movement threw everyone forward, breaking the trance of the moment.
"What happened?" someone called from the front of the auto.
The driver cursed, slapping the dashboard. "Axle broken. Can't go further." He twisted in his seat to face the passengers, his expression grim in the dim light. "Too much water on road. Auto can't move now."
A chorus of protests erupted from the other passengers. Devika sat frozen on Ganapathi's lap, his hand still half-tucked into her waistband, both of them breathing heavily. As the reality of their situation penetrated the fog of unwanted arousal, a cold dread settled in her stomach. They were stranded in the middle of the storm, kilometers from her home.
Ganapathi's hands withdrew slowly from her body as the other passengers began to exit the auto, cursing the weather and discussing alternate routes home. The spell broken, Devika felt a rush of shame flood through her. What had she been doing? What had she allowed?
"Madam," Ganapathi's voice came from behind her, softer now, almost apologetic. "We should get out too. Find shelter somewhere."
She couldn't bring herself to look at him as she gathered her shopping bag, now soaked through from the rain that had leaked into the auto. Outside, the storm continued unabated, water rushing ankle-deep through the street. Night had fallen completely, the darkness broken only by distant streetlights and occasional flashes of lightning.
Devika stepped out into the rain, immediately drenched again, her saree clinging to her curves. Ganapathi followed, standing close beside her in the downpour. They faced each other in silence, the intimacy of moments before hanging between them like a physical presence, both knowing that whatever happened next would not be erased by the storm's cleansing waters.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)