Fantasy Devika, a rich high class housewife, with angel heart

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



The storm enveloped Ganapathi's small dwelling in a cocoon of sound—rain hammering the tin roof, wind whistling through cracks in the windows, distant thunder rolling across the sky. Inside, candles flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls. Devika sat perched on the edge of Ganapathi's only chair, his flannel shirt wrapped around her shoulders, the borrowed saree sitting uncomfortably low on her hips. The conversation about their respective marriages had created an unexpected intimacy between them, a fragile connection forged in the crucible of shared disappointment.



Ganapathi cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence that had settled between them. "We should eat something, madam. Storm will not stop soon, and empty stomach makes cold feel worse."



Devika nodded, suddenly aware of the hollow feeling in her abdomen. She hadn't eaten since a light lunch at the college canteen, hours ago. "Yes, I am rather hungry."



"I don't have much," Ganapathi said apologetically, rising from the bed. "Bachelor cooking only. But I have some potatoes, onions, flour. We can make aloo paratha maybe."



The words sent an electric current through Devika's body. Aloo paratha. The very dish she had invited Ramlal to her apartment to make. The pretext that had led to his hands guiding hers through the dough, his body pressed against her back, his breath hot against her neck. Heat spread across her skin that had nothing to do with the temperature of the small room.



"Aloo paratha sounds perfect for this weather," she said, her voice emerging slightly higher than intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself. "Warm, filling."



Ganapathi nodded, moving toward the kitchen alcove. "Yes, good for rainy night. My wife taught me how to make. Not fancy restaurant style, but tasty." A shadow passed over his face at the mention of his wife, but he shook it off quickly, busying himself with pulling ingredients from a small wooden cabinet.



Devika watched as he moved with surprising efficiency, setting potatoes to boil in a small pot, placing a worn cutting board on the counter. There was something mesmerizing about his movements—practiced, confident in this space that was wholly his. Unlike the hesitant, deferential manner he displayed at the college, here he seemed more substantial, more defined.



"Can I help?" she asked, rising from the chair, drawn to the warmth and activity of the kitchen area.



Ganapathi turned, surprise evident on his weathered face. "No, no, madam. You are guest. Professor. Not right for you to work in kitchen while I am here."



"Don't think of me as a professor now," Devika said, stepping closer to the small counter. "I'm just a person, seeking shelter from the storm. And I'd like to be useful."



Her words hung between them, loaded with more meaning than the simple request implied. Ganapathi studied her face, as if searching for the true intent behind her offer.



"Please," she added. "I feel awkward just sitting while you do all the work."



His resistance crumbled visibly. "Okay, madam. If you insist." He glanced around, searching for a task simple enough to assign her. "These onions need cutting for the filling. You can do this if you like."



He handed her two medium-sized onions and a small knife, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. Even that fleeting contact sent a charge through her body, making her acutely aware of the loosely tied blouse on her back, the low-slung petticoat exposing her midriff.



"Thank you," she said, taking the knife and moving to a small clear space on the counter.



The kitchen alcove was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. Their bodies existed in a constant state of near-collision as they worked, arms brushing, shoulders touching as they navigated the cramped space. Each contact, however brief, seemed magnified by the intimate setting, by the memory of his hands on her body in the auto-rickshaw.



As Devika began to slice the onions, she found herself hyper-aware of Ganapathi's presence behind her. She could feel his gaze occasionally touching her back, where the blouse gaped open between the two ties. The sensation of being watched, of being desired, was both uncomfortable and strangely thrilling.



The potatoes finished boiling, and Ganapathi moved to drain them in a small colander. Steam filled the kitchen space, adding to the already humid air. Sweat began to bead along Devika's hairline, trickling down her neck and between her shoulder blades.



"Kitchen gets very hot with cooking," Ganapathi observed, noticing her discomfort. "Small space, no ventilation."



Devika nodded, feeling perspiration dampening the flannel shirt around her shoulders. The additional layer, welcome earlier against the chill, now felt stifling. Without thinking, she slipped it off, dbanging it over the back of the chair.



"Much better," she sighed, returning to her task.



Only when she caught Ganapathi's sudden stillness did she realize what she'd done. Without the shirt covering her shoulders and back, she stood before him in just the borrowed blouse and saree—the blouse that exposed most of her back, secured by only two tenuous ties, the saree that sat scandalously low on her hips. The awareness of her exposure sent heat flooding through her body, pooling low in her belly.



Ganapathi's eyes traveled the length of her bare back, lingering on the knots that held the blouse together, on the expanse of golden skin between them. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, hands fumbling with the potatoes he was mashing.



"Onions are ready," Devika said, desperate to break the charged silence. She held up the cutting board, the chopped pieces swimming in her tears—a natural reaction to the vegetable that now provided convenient cover for her emotional confusion.



"Good, good," Ganapathi muttered, dragging his attention back to the task at hand. "Now we mix with potatoes and spices."



He added the onions to the mashed potatoes, then sprinkled in various spices from small containers—cumin, coriander, red chili powder. The fragrance filled the small kitchen, earthy and aromatic, creating another layer of intimacy in the space they shared.



Devika moved to the small sink, washing the knife and cutting board. The domestic nature of their actions—cooking together in this tiny kitchen while storm raged outside—carried a strange weight, as if they were playing at a relationship that didn't exist. She felt Ganapathi's eyes on her again as she stretched to place the cutting board on a high shelf, knew he was watching the movement of muscles across her exposed back.



"Now we need to prepare the flour," Ganapathi said, his voice rougher than before. "For the outer covering."



He reached past her for a metal container of flour, his arm brushing against hers, the contact brief but electric. Devika's heart quickened, her body remembering with sudden clarity the weight of Ramlal's chest against her back as he'd guided her hands through the dough. The memory was so vivid she could almost feel his breath on her neck, his fingers pressing against hers.



Something must have shown on her face, because Ganapathi paused, flour container in hand. "Madam? Are you all right?"



"Yes," she said quickly, though she was anything but. "Just thinking about the next step."



She watched as Ganapathi measured flour into a bowl, creating a well in the center for water. Her mind racing ahead to what might come next, to boundaries she'd already crossed once and now stood poised to cross again.





# Scene 2



"We must prepare the flour now," Ganapathi said, measuring water into a small cup.



Devika's tongue darted out, unconsciously wetting her lips at his words. Her heart hammered against her ribs as memories of Ramlal flooded her senses—his chest pressed against her back, his hands enveloping hers, kneading her flesh as thoroughly as they had kneaded the dough. She could almost feel his fingers digging into her waist, leaving floury prints on her skin.



She wanted to feel that again—the boundary-crossing pleasure of a man's body aligned with hers under the pretense of cooking. But a flicker of doubt rippled through her excitement. With Ramlal, she had maintained some semblance of control. Ganapathi was different—older, more direct in his desires, less constrained by the protocols that had governed their interactions at the college. She had already felt the hard evidence of his arousal in the auto, had already experienced the hunger in his touch.



"I'll knead the flour," she heard herself say, the decision made before her conscious mind could intervene.



Ganapathi looked up sharply, surprise evident in the furrow of his brow. "No, madam. This needs strong hands. Proper kneading requires strength." He flexed his weathered fingers demonstratively. "I will do."



"I have strong hands," Devika insisted, stepping closer to the bowl. "Give me a chance."



His eyes moved over her—taking in the exposed curve of her shoulders, the way the borrowed blouse strained against her breasts, the glimpse of navel visible above the low-slung saree. Something like amusement flickered across his face, as if he found her claim of strength charmingly absurd when contrasted with her evident femininity.



"As you wish," he conceded, stepping aside. "But don't blame me if arms get tired."



Devika positioned herself before the bowl, acutely aware of Ganapathi's eyes on her as she poured water into the well of flour. She began mixing with her fingers, trying to incorporate the water evenly throughout the dry ingredients. Almost immediately, she encountered resistance—the flour remained stubbornly separated into wet clumps and dry patches, refusing to form a cohesive mass.



"You see?" Ganapathi said after watching her struggle for several moments. "Not coming properly. Needs technique."



Devika frowned at the bowl. "I've only prepared dough a few times," she admitted, thinking of Ramlal and how effortlessly he had transformed the ingredients into smooth, pliable dough. Her hands, more accustomed to handling laboratory equipment than kitchen staples, felt clumsy and ineffective.



"Let me show you how to do properly," Ganapathi offered, moving toward her. "Move aside."



Her heart skipped, the moment of opportunity approaching. This was what she had been waiting for, had been orchestrating from the moment he mentioned aloo parathas. She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the flutter of nerves in her stomach.



"No," she said, her voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. "Not like that. Teach me. Come here—guide me." The suggestion hung in the air between them, laden with meaning beyond the simple words.



Ganapathi froze, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. "Guide you? You mean...?" His hands made a vague gesture that encompassed both of them, the implication clear.



"Yes," Devika confirmed, holding his gaze steadily despite the heat rising in her cheeks. "Show me how to use my hands properly. From behind." She turned back to the bowl, presenting her exposed back to him. "That's the best way for me to learn."



Ganapathi stood motionless for several heartbeats, as if processing her suggestion. She could almost hear the rapid calculations in his mind—the risk, the opportunity, the unspoken boundary she was inviting him to cross.



"Are you sure, madam?" His voice emerged hoarse, strained with barely contained desire.



"Yes," she said firmly, though her pulse raced with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. "I'm hungry. The sooner we prepare this, the sooner we can eat."



With visible effort, Ganapathi moved behind her, his legs slightly shaky as he positioned himself at her back. She felt the heat of him before they made contact—the warmth radiating from his body as he stood close enough to feel but not touch. His breath came in shallow bursts against her bare shoulder, sending goosebumps cascading down her spine.



From this position, Ganapathi had a direct view of her back where the blouse gaped open, secured only by two thin ties—one at her neck and one at her waist. Between them lay an expanse of golden skin, the graceful curve of her spine, the subtle shift of muscles beneath smooth flesh. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he took in the sight, felt the moment of hesitation before he leaned forward.



"We should begin," she prompted when he remained frozen behind her.



"Yes, yes," he muttered, finally closing the distance between them.



His chest made contact with her upper back first, the thin cotton of his shirt doing little to mute the heat of his skin. His arms extended around her, hovering momentarily before descending to cover her hands in the bowl. The contrast was stark—his larger, darker hands, roughened by years of manual labor, enveloping her smaller, softer ones. She felt surrounded, enclosed by his presence.



"Like this," he instructed, his voice a low rumble near her ear. "Push with heel of palm, then fold with fingers. Always same direction."



He guided her hands in a circular motion, pressing the disparate elements together until they began to cohere. The dough gradually transformed beneath their joined hands, becoming more uniform with each pass. Devika was acutely aware of how his chest pressed against her back, how his breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair at her neck, how his thighs occasionally brushed against the backs of hers.



"More pressure," he murmured, applying more force through her hands. "Must work gluten to make dough elastic."



As they worked together, their bodies fell into a rhythm—forward and back, press and release, their movements synchronized in the small space. Heat built between them, the humid kitchen air growing thicker with their shared exertion. A drop of sweat traced a path down Devika's spine, disappearing into the gap where her blouse met the saree.



She felt his focus shift from the dough to her body—noticed how his chest pressed more firmly against her back, how his hands lingered longer when they lifted from the dough to be repositioned. His breath grew more ragged against her ear, his body temperature seeming to rise with each passing moment.



Devika shifted her weight slightly, pressing her buttocks back against him with deliberate pressure. The contact drew a sharp gasp from Ganapathi, his hands faltering in their steady rhythm. Against the small of her back, she felt the unmistakable hardness of his arousal, straining against the thin fabric of his lungi.



"Ah," he moaned, the sound half-pleasure, half-distress. "Sexy, soft ass."



The crude assessment, delivered in his accented English, should have offended her. Instead, it sent a pulse of heat between her thighs, a liquid warmth that pooled in her core. The raw honesty of his desire was somehow more arousing than polished compliments could ever be.



Suddenly, Ganapathi pulled away, breaking contact with her body. "Sorry, madam," he stammered, his voice thick with embarrassment. "I should not—this is not proper—"



"What happened?" Devika asked, turning slightly to look at him over her shoulder. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his eyes unable to meet hers.



"Nothing, nothing," he muttered, adjusting his lungi with clumsy movements that only drew attention to what he was trying to conceal.



Devika turned back to the dough, a small smile playing at her lips despite her effort to appear innocent. "That's fine, Ganapathi. I understand." She paused, then added with careful casualness, "But please don't leave until we finish the dough. It's coming along nicely now."



"You are not... upset?" he asked, confusion evident in his voice.



"No," she said simply. "We're just making parathas."



The pretense was paper-thin, transparent to them both, yet it provided the necessary fiction that allowed them to continue. Ganapathi hesitated a moment longer, then stepped forward again, positioning himself behind her once more.



This time, when he pressed against her, there was no pretense of accident or unawareness. His hardness nestled deliberately against the curve of her buttocks as his hands found hers in the dough. She pushed back slightly, acknowledging the contact, encouraging it.



"Continue with the dough," she instructed softly, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.



Ganapathi resumed guiding her hands through the kneading motions, but his focus had clearly shifted. As they worked the dough together, he began to rub his face against her bare upper back, his beard scratching lightly against her skin, his lips occasionally grazing her shoulder. The sensation was electric—each brush of his mouth against her skin sending currents of pleasure radiating outward.



The dough beneath their hands grew smoother, more pliable with each passing moment, mirroring the softening of boundaries between them.





# Scene 3



The dough was nearly ready, smooth and elastic beneath their joined hands. But Devika's attention had drifted from the flour to the pressure of Ganapathi's body against hers, to the heat building between them in the cramped kitchen. His face continued to brush against her bare back, his breathing growing more labored with each passing moment. The pretense of cooking instruction had worn gossamer-thin, transparent as the film of sweat on their skin.



"The flour is almost done," she said, her voice huskier than intended. Then, making a decision that sent her heart racing, she added, "But perhaps you'd prefer to knead something else."



Before Ganapathi could respond, she lifted his flour-dusted hands from the bowl and deliberately placed them on her hips, where the saree sat precariously low. The boldness of her action surprised even herself—this direct invitation, this explicit permission.



"The real flour," she murmured, pressing his palms against the curve of her hips, feeling the slight tremor in his fingers as they made contact with her body.



Ganapathi stood frozen behind her, his hands hovering where she had placed them, barely making contact, as if he feared she might dissolve beneath his touch. "Madam," he breathed, his voice thick with disbelief. "What are you doing?"



"Giving you permission," she replied, her eyes fixed on the dough before them, unable to turn and face him. "But only within limits."



"Are you sure?" he asked, his hands still hesitant against her hips. "In auto, you were angry when I touched."



"That was different," she said. "You took without asking. Now I'm offering." She paused, then added more firmly, "But only my waist and hips. Nothing more. Do you understand?"



A shuddering breath escaped him, hot against her shoulder. "Yes, madam. I understand. Thank you."



His gratitude, so earnest and unfiltered, sent an unexpected wave of tenderness through her. Then his hands began to move, and all thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in a gust of wind.



Ganapathi's touch was gentler than she had anticipated—reverent almost, his palms sliding slowly over the curve of her hips, fingers pressing lightly into the soft flesh. "So soft," he murmured, the words emerging as a prayer. "Soft hips."



He squeezed experimentally, testing the give of her flesh, and a small sound escaped Devika's throat—not quite a moan, but something close. Encouraged, his touch grew more confident, his fingers kneading the generous curve where her hips flared from her waist.



"Like this?" he asked, his voice a rasp against her ear.



"Yes," she whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the counter to steady herself.



Emboldened by her response, Ganapathi pressed closer, his chest flush against her back now, his lungi-covered erection nestled firmly against her buttocks. He lowered his face to her shoulder, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize her scent.



"You smell so good, madam," he groaned, his lips brushing the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Like flowers and woman."



The crude poetry of his words sent shivers across her skin. His mouth opened against her shoulder, lips pressing more firmly, tasting the salt of her skin. Then his tongue—hot and wet—traced a path from her shoulder to the base of her neck.



Devika jerked at the sensation, a gasp escaping her lips. "Ganapathi!"



"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled against her skin, though he didn't pull away. Instead, his tongue continued its exploration, leaving a trail of moisture along her shoulder, across the upper reaches of her back. His saliva cooled in the humid air, raising goosebumps across her skin.



His hands never stopped their movement, sliding from her hips to her waist, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matched the kneading they had performed on the dough. His face roamed across her exposed back, pressing against every inch of skin revealed by the gaping blouse, inhaling her scent like a man starved for oxygen.



"Your skin," he groaned between kisses. "So silky. Never felt skin like this." His beard scratched lightly against her, the contrast between his roughness and her smoothness creating a friction that sent pulses of heat through her body.



His right hand ventured to her abdomen, fingers splaying across the expanse of bare skin above the saree, tracing an upward path until they found her navel. The first touch against that small depression drew a sharp intake of breath from Devika—the area unexpectedly sensitive, perhaps made more so by Seenu's recent obsessive attention.



Ganapathi noticed her reaction immediately. One finger circled her navel, tracing its outline with deliberate slowness before dipping inside. "Sexy little hole," he murmured, his finger pressing deeper, exploring the small cavity with curious intensity.



The sensation was bizarre yet undeniably arousing—his callused fingertip rough against the tender skin, probing the intimate hollow with gentle insistence. Devika's stomach muscles tightened, her breath catching as he circled the depression, then pressed into it again.



"Ah," she gasped, the sound escaping before she could contain it.



"You like?" Ganapathi asked, his voice thick with desire. "Tell me what you like, madam."



His directness, the raw hunger in his voice, broke through some final barrier within her. "Yes," she admitted, the word barely audible. "Harder."



A groan rumbled through Ganapathi's chest, vibrating against her back. His finger pressed more firmly into her navel, circling with increased pressure. His other hand squeezed her hip with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft flesh until she felt the bite of pain beneath the pleasure.



"Ganapathi," she moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder. "Do you like me?"



"Yes," he answered immediately, his voice fervent with sincerity. "Yes, madam. From first day I see you, I think of touching you like this." His hands emphasized his words, squeezing her waist with possessive intensity.



"Yes," she encouraged, surrendering to the sensation. "Love my hips like that."



His hands responded instantly, kneading her flesh with renewed vigor, pressing deep into the generous curves. "Such sexy hips," he groaned, his body rocking slightly against hers. "When I joined college, first day, I could not take eyes off you. Waiting for saree to slide, to see more of this beautiful waist."



His confession sent a thrill through her—the knowledge that he had noticed her, had desired her, long before today's unexpected intimacy. "I noticed that," she said, a hint of playfulness entering her voice despite the intensity of the moment. "Your pervert eyes on me."



"Yes," he admitted without shame. "Old man can still appreciate beautiful woman."



His hands continued their work, squeezing and releasing, his fingers pressing deeper with each pass. The pressure intensified until his grip crossed the boundary from pleasure to pain—his weathered hands compressing her flesh with unexpected strength, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises by morning.



"Ah!" Devika cried out, the sound sharp with pain rather than pleasure. Yet beneath the discomfort ran a current of dark satisfaction—the knowledge that her body would carry the imprint of his desire, that she had inspired such uncontrolled passion in this man.



The kitchen filled with the sound of her cry, the echo bouncing off the close walls. Something in her voice—perhaps the edge of genuine pain—penetrated Ganapathi's haze of desire. His hands immediately gentled, though they didn't release her entirely.



"Enough," she said softly, placing her hands over his to still their movement. "That's enough, Ganapathi."



He froze instantly, his hands motionless beneath hers. "Did I hurt you, madam?" Concern laced his voice, breaking through the rough desire.



"A little," she admitted. "But it's fine. We just need to stop now."



Reluctantly, Ganapathi removed his hands from her body, stepping back to create space between them. The sudden absence of his heat left Devika feeling oddly bereft, despite being the one who had called a halt to their encounter.



"I need a moment," she said, not looking at him. "To adjust my saree."



Ganapathi nodded, his eyes following her as she moved toward the small bedroom. "Yes, madam. I will finish preparing dough."



Inside the bedroom, Devika closed the door and leaned against it, her heart racing, her skin still tingling from Ganapathi's touch. She examined her waist in the dim candlelight, noting the reddish marks his fingers had left behind. By morning, they would darken to purple-blue, evidence of this strange night that no one else would ever see.



She adjusted the low-hanging saree, tucking it more securely into the petticoat, and retied the loose strings of the blouse as best she could. Her body hummed with unfulfilled desire, a persistent ache that she knew would find no resolution tonight. The boundaries she had established—allowing his touch but limiting its scope—had protected her from going too far, yet left her suspended in a state of arousal that had no clear path to release.



When she returned to the kitchen, Ganapathi stood at the counter, rolling the dough into small balls. He looked up as she entered, his eyes immediately seeking the places where his hands had been.



"I am sorry, madam," he said quietly. "I got mad with desire. Pressed too hard."



"It's fine," she assured him, moving to stand beside him rather than in front of him. "As long as we keep things within limits."



He nodded, returning his attention to the dough. But his eyes continued to drift toward her, drawn to the curve of her waist, to the memory of flesh yielding beneath his hands. The storm outside showed no signs of abating, rain still hammering against the tin roof. The night stretched before them, hours yet to fill as they navigated this new, charged awareness of each other.



"Let me help with the parathas," Devika said, picking up one of the dough balls. "I'm still very hungry."



The double meaning hung in the air between them, acknowledged but not pursued. They worked side by side in the small kitchen, their bodies occasionally brushing, each contact carrying the weight of what had passed between them, and what had not.