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

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over the two figures entwined on the floor. Devika lay sprawled across Ganapathi's chest, her right arm dbangd over him, one leg hooked between his thighs. Her saree had ridden up during the night, exposing the smooth curve of her calf. The pallu that should have covered her torso had come completely unwrapped, fluttering like an abandoned flag beside them. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck, while he slept on his back, face tilted toward the ceiling, unaware of how intimately their bodies had entangled in sleep.



Devika's eyelids fluttered, consciousness returning in slow waves. First came the unfamiliar warmth beneath her cheek, then the rhythmic rise and fall that didn't match her mattress. Her eyes opened fully, focus sharpening on the weathered neck inches from her face, the paan-stained beard that tickled her forehead. Recognition crashed through her drowsy haze like cold water.



"Oh my God," she whispered, horrified awareness jolting through her body.



She lifted her head carefully, taking in their tangled position with widening eyes. Sometime during the night, their careful side-by-side arrangement had transformed into this—her dbangd across him like a wife of many years, comfortable and possessive in her unconscious claiming of his body. Her leg was thrown carelessly between his, her saree hiked scandalously high. Worse, Ganapathi's hand still rested on her bare stomach where she had placed it last night, his fingers splayed across her skin in unconscious intimacy.



Devika extracted herself with careful movements, lifting his arm from her waist and sliding her leg from between his. Ganapathi stirred but didn't wake, his breathing remaining deep and regular. Once free, she stood quickly, tugging her disheveled saree back into place, wrapping the wayward pallu across her shoulder with trembling fingers.



Her face burned as she looked down at him—this elderly peon from her college, sleeping peacefully on his thin mat, unaware of how completely she had abandoned herself to his embrace during the night. The storm had passed, morning sunlight streaming through the windows, revealing the room's shabby details with unforgiving clarity. What had seemed necessary in the storm's darkness now felt like madness in daylight.



She moved quietly to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her clothes from yesterday hung over the rope line, still damp but wearable. She removed the borrowed saree carefully, folding it with reverent hands. It had served its purpose, this garment of another woman, but now she needed to reclaim her own identity, her own boundaries.



As she dressed in her damp clothes, Devika caught fragments of her reflection in a small cracked mirror hanging on the wall. There were marks on her waist—faint bruises where Ganapathi's fingers had pressed too eagerly during their kitchen encounter. Evidence that couldn't be folded away like the borrowed saree.



When she emerged from the bedroom, Ganapathi was no longer on the mat. The sound of a spoon clinking against metal drew her attention to the kitchen alcove, where he stood preparing coffee, his back to her. Something about the domesticity of the scene—this man making morning coffee after she had slept in his arms—sent a pang through her chest, an emotion she couldn't quite name.



"Good morning," she said softly.



Ganapathi turned, his face lighting with a smile that transformed his weathered features. "Ah, madam! Good morning. I am making coffee for you. Please, sit."



He gestured toward the chair, the same one where she had sat last night while he prepared their dinner. She settled into it, noting how different the small room looked in daylight—less mysterious, more humble. Ganapathi brought two steaming cups to the table, setting one before her with a careful movement that suggested he was still in awe of her presence in his home.



"You slept well?" he asked, lowering himself onto the edge of his bed across from her.



"Yes," she admitted, her fingers curling around the warm cup. "Better than I expected."



"Storm is gone now," he observed, gesturing toward the window where sunlight streamed through. "All clear."



"Yes," Devika agreed, taking a sip of the sweet, milky coffee. "Ganapathi, about last night..."



"Madam, I know," he interrupted, his expression suddenly serious. "You don't need to say. What happened here stays here only. No one at college will know from me."



Relief washed through her. "Thank you. That's important to me."



"I understand," he nodded solemnly. "Your position, your respect. I would never do anything to damage."



They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment, the unspoken intimacy of the night hanging between them. Ganapathi's eyes kept darting to her face, then away, as if he couldn't quite believe she was still there, sitting at his table in the morning light.



"Madam," he began hesitantly, setting down his cup. "I was wondering..."



"Yes?" Devika prompted when he faltered.



"Is it possible—" he licked his lips nervously, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his cup. "Could we have moments like this again? Sometimes?"



The question hung in the air, loaded with hope and desire. Devika stared at him, this man who had held her through the storm, whose touch had awakened sensations she had almost forgotten.



"Ganapathi," she said gently, "what happened yesterday was... unusual circumstances. I was stranded, afraid of the storm. We didn't have a choice."



His face fell, disappointment etching deeper lines around his eyes. "I understand, madam. I shouldn't have asked."



The sight of his crestfallen expression tugged at something in Devika. She remembered how tenderly he had held her, how he had maintained the boundaries she set even in his obvious desire.



"But," she continued, surprising herself, "I understand loneliness. I see it in you because I feel it too." She paused, weighing her words carefully. "I can't promise anything, but... I will try. For moments, perhaps. Not like this exactly, but something."



Ganapathi's eyes widened, hope blooming across his face like a sudden sunrise. "Really, madam? You will try?"



"Yes," she said, firmer now. "But you must never take advantage. Never push for more than I'm willing to give. Do you understand?"



"Yes, yes," he nodded eagerly, his hands making emphatic gestures. "I understand perfectly. Whatever you give is blessing for me."



Devika finished her coffee and stood, gathering her shopping bags. The contents had dried overnight, though the paper was wrinkled beyond salvation. "I should go now."



Ganapathi rose quickly, moving to open the door for her. As she stepped past him into the morning sunlight, his eyes followed her movements with undisguised appreciation, lingering on the sway of her hips beneath the damp saree.



"Thank you for the shelter," she said formally, slipping on her heels that had dried by the door. "And the coffee."



"Anytime, madam," Ganapathi replied, his voice carrying a weight of meaning beyond the simple words. He stood in the doorway, watching as she walked away, his expression a mixture of disbelief and adoration.



As Devika moved down the narrow lane, feeling Ganapathi's eyes on her back, she heard him mutter something behind her, words she wasn't meant to hear:



"Goodness, what a stunning woman she is."



expressing his marvel at her as a "hot woman"—should have offended her. Instead, a small smile played at the corners of her lips as she continued walking, her damp saree clinging to curves that had brought such wonder to an old man's eyes.





# Scene 2



The sun had climbed higher in the sky by the time Devika approached her apartment building, casting shortened shadows across the recently flooded streets. Water still pooled in the deeper potholes, reflecting fragments of blue sky like scattered mirrors. As she neared the entrance gate, a familiar figure rose from the security chair—Ramlal, his posture stiffening at the sight of her, relief and concern mingling in his expression. His eyes took in her rumpled appearance, the shopping bags with their obviously water-damaged contents, the slight disarray of her hair despite her attempts to smooth it.



"Madam," he called, moving toward her with unusual urgency. "You are okay? I was worried when you didn't come home last night."



Devika paused, surprised by his concern. She hadn't considered that her absence would be noticed, much less cause worry. "I'm fine, Ramlal. Just got caught in the storm."



He nodded, his eyes traveling over her damp saree, the slight smudge of kohl beneath her eyes. "I knocked on your door last evening when rain started getting bad. When you didn't answer, I thought maybe you were sleeping. But this morning also, no sign of you." His voice carried a note of genuine concern that touched her unexpectedly.



The lie formed in her mind with surprising ease. "I was at Saradha's place," she said, her voice steady despite the falsehood. "I was shopping in Tulsi Baug when the storm hit. Her flat was closer, so I stayed there."



Ramlal's face relaxed, relief evident in the slight drop of his shoulders. "Good thing, madam. The weather was quite terrible.. Very dangerous to be outside." He gestured toward the street where debris from the storm still littered the sidewalks. "Roads were completely flooded. Electricity also gone whole night."



"Yes, we lost power too," Devika said, the partial truth easier to deliver. "Luckily I was... safe." The word caught slightly in her throat as images flashed through her mind—Ganapathi's hands on her waist, his body pressed against her back as they prepared dinner, his arm around her as they slept.



"Good, good," Ramlal nodded, then glanced toward her shopping bags. "Your things got wet?"



"Some of them," she admitted. "Nothing important."



An awkward silence fell between them, laden with unspoken thoughts. Ramlal shifted his weight, his eyes moving over her face with an intensity that suggested he was searching for something—perhaps signs of where she had truly been, perhaps simply reassurance that she was indeed unharmed.



"Thank you for your concern," Devika said finally, offering a small smile. "I should go up now. Need to change out of these damp clothes."



"Yes, madam. Of course." He stepped aside, though his eyes followed her as she moved past him toward the stairs. "If you need anything, I am here."



The words echoed those Ganapathi had spoken last night, creating an odd parallel that wasn't lost on Devika. Two older men, both offering service, both seeing more in her than their positions should allow. She nodded in acknowledgment and began climbing the stairs, feeling Ramlal's gaze on her back until she turned the corner out of sight.



Inside her apartment, Devika set down her shopping bags and leaned against the closed door, exhaling deeply. The familiar surroundings seemed almost surreal after the strange intimacy of Ganapathi's home. She moved through the rooms, turning on lights, touching familiar objects as if to reacquaint herself with her own life.



In the bathroom, she peeled off her damp saree, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. Her blouse and petticoat followed, until she stood naked before the mirror, examining herself with new eyes. The marks on her waist had darkened slightly—purple-blue imprints of Ganapathi's fingers where he had kneaded her flesh with too much enthusiasm. She traced them lightly, the slight tenderness a physical reminder of what had transpired.



The hot water of the shower washed away the last traces of Ganapathi's home—the lingering scent of his cheap soap, the faint mustiness of his sheets, the memory of sweat that had formed between their bodies as they slept pressed together on the thin mat. Yet even as the water sluiced over her skin, Devika found the memories refusing to dissolve.



She dried herself carefully, applied sandalwood-scented lotion to her skin, and dressed in a fresh saree—forest green with a gold border, crisp and proper. The familiar routine should have restored her sense of self, her place in the world. Instead, her mind kept returning to the previous night, to moments that seemed dreamlike in their improbability.



Seated on her sofa with a cup of tea, Devika allowed herself to fully examine what had happened. "I sat on an old man's lap," she whispered to the empty room, testing how the truth sounded aloud. "I let the college peon touch me intimately."



The facts, stated plainly, should have filled her with shame. Instead, she found herself remembering the genuine pleasure of Ganapathi's reverent touch, the way his hands had caressed her waist with such appreciation, as if touching something precious.



"He kissed my shoulders," she continued, fingers moving unconsciously to the spot where his paan-stained lips had pressed against her skin. "He licked me like I was something delicious."



Heat spread across her chest at the memory—Ganapathi's tongue tracing patterns on her bare back, his breath hot against her neck, his beard scratching lightly against her sensitive skin. She had permitted these liberties, had even encouraged them with her reactions, her small movements that pressed her body more firmly against his.



"I slept with him all night," she murmured, the words carrying multiple meanings though nothing sexual had occurred between them. "I slept in his arms like a wife."



This fact perhaps disturbed her most—not the touches or caresses, which could be dismissed as momentary weakness, but the comfort she had found in his embrace. The way she had nestled against him through the night, her body seeking his warmth, her head finding the perfect hollow of his shoulder. The way she had placed his hand against her bare stomach, inviting an intimacy that went beyond mere physical contact.



"He held me tighter than Anand ever did," she admitted, and the truth of it stung. Her husband's embraces had always been perfunctory, a prelude to sleep or sex rather than an act of connection in itself. Ganapathi had held her as if she might disappear, as if the mere fact of her presence in his arms was miraculous.



Devika sipped her tea, her thoughts circling back to the morning—waking dbangd across his body, her leg thrown possessively over his, her head on his chest. The position of a woman who had surrendered completely to comfort, to trust.



"He's a dirty old man who chews paan," she reminded herself sternly. "A college peon. What am I doing?"



Yet even as she formed the words, she remembered the kindness in his eyes, the reverence in his touch, the way he had maintained the boundaries she set even in his obvious desire. The way he had looked at her this morning, as if she had given him a gift beyond price simply by existing in his space.



Devika closed her eyes, confused by her own reactions. Sometimes she hated herself for these new explorations, these boundaries crossed with men who should have remained invisible to her. Sometimes she felt shy, almost girlish, at the memory of their desire, their appreciation of her body. But increasingly, she felt something else—a power awakening, a realization that her life contained possibilities she had never imagined before the storm.





# Scene 3



Monday morning arrived with clear skies that betrayed no evidence of the weekend's violent storm. Devika stepped through the college gates, her navy blue silk saree wrapped immaculately around her body, her hair twisted into a neat bun secured with jasmine flowers. She carried herself with practiced poise, her face composed into the serene expression expected of a respected professor. No outward sign revealed the turmoil within—the memories of Ganapathi's hands on her waist, of sleeping in his arms through the storm-wracked night, of waking dbangd across his body in unconscious intimacy.



In the staff room, Saradha looked up from her desk, her face brightening. "Devika! Thank goodness you're all right. I tried calling you all weekend."



Devika settled into her chair, arranging her saree with careful movements. "The network was down," she explained, a partial truth. "And I lost power for most of Saturday night."



"This storm was terrible," Saradha agreed, leaning closer. "Did you get caught in it? I heard Tulsi Baug was completely flooded."



A flicker of alarm passed through Devika. How did Saradha know she'd been at Tulsi Baug? Then she remembered mentioning her shopping plans to her friend on Friday.



"No, I didn't go out," she lied smoothly. "I stayed home all weekend. The weather forecast warned it would be bad, so I just stayed in with books and candles when the power went out." She busied herself with arranging papers on her desk, avoiding Saradha's eyes.



"Smart decision," Saradha nodded. "I was worried about flooding in my building's ground floor. The security guard had to stay up all night moving people's scooters to higher ground."



Devika made appropriate noises of concern, her thoughts drifting to Ramlal and his evident worry for her safety. Then, inevitably, to Ganapathi. She glanced around the staff room, noting his absence. He usually brought tea to the faculty around this time, moving quietly from desk to desk with a tray of steaming cups.



"Where is Ganapathi today?" she asked, aiming for casual interest.



"Called in sick," one of the male professors replied without looking up from his newspaper. "Probably caught cold in that rain. Old men should know better than to be out in such weather."



Devika felt her cheeks warm, knowing exactly where Ganapathi had been during the storm—with her, his hands exploring her waist, his body pressed against hers as they slept on his thin mat. Had he called in sick to avoid facing her? Or was he truly unwell after their night together?



The bell rang, saving her from further conversation. Devika gathered her teaching materials and headed to her first class of the day. As she walked through the corridors, she found herself looking for Ganapathi's familiar figure—sweeping the floors, delivering files, his eyes finding hers with that secret knowledge they now shared. His absence left an unexpected hollow in her day.



In the classroom, her third-year students waited, including Pathan and Vishnu, seated in their usual places near the front. Their eyes tracked her movement as she entered, lingering on the graceful sweep of her saree, the curve of her waist where it disappeared into the pleats at her hip. Devika felt their gaze like a physical touch, warming her skin beneath the silk.



"Good morning, class," she began, setting her books on the desk. "Today we'll be discussing cellular adaptation to environmental stress—how living cells respond to changes in their surroundings."



As she lectured, Devika found herself moving differently, more aware of her body as an object of desire. When she turned to write on the blackboard, she allowed her saree to pull slightly tighter across her hips. When she walked between the rows of desks, she paused fractionally longer beside Pathan and Vishnu, letting them catch the scent of jasmine from her hair, the subtle perfume at her wrist.



"Pathan," she called, catching his eyes lingering on the curve where her blouse met her saree. "Perhaps you can explain the process of osmotic regulation?"



He straightened, momentarily flustered at being singled out. "Yes, Professor. Osmotic regulation is the control of water balance between the cell and its environment."



She smiled, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. "Very good. And Vishnu, what happens when a cell faces prolonged stress?"



Vishnu cleared his throat, his voice slightly rougher than usual. "The cell either adapts or dies, Professor. If it adapts, it undergoes structural changes to survive the new conditions."



"Precisely," she nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "Adaptation or death. No other options."



After the lecture, the class transitioned to the laboratory for practical work. Devika watched as students paired up at workstations, preparing microscope slides of cells subjected to various environmental stressors. She moved through the room, offering guidance, her fingers occasionally brushing against a student's hand, her presence lingering beside certain workstations.



"Professor," Pathan called, "I think there's something wrong with my microscope. The image isn't clear."



Devika moved to his station, aware of the eyes that followed her progress across the room. She leaned over Pathan's shoulder, her body close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her.



"Let me see," she murmured, bending to look through the eyepiece. Her face came dangerously near his, her cheek almost brushing his as they both positioned themselves at the microscope. She adjusted the focus knob, her fingers brushing his where they rested on the instrument.



"You need to adjust the fine focus," she explained, her breath warm against his ear. "Like this."



Pathan remained perfectly still, as if afraid the slightest movement might shatter this moment of proximity. His face was so close to hers that he could discern individual jasmine petals in her hair, could smell the faint mint on her breath as she spoke.



"Do you see it now?" she asked, her lips mere inches from his cheek.



"Yes," he managed, his voice strained. "Much clearer now."



She straightened slowly, allowing her saree pallu to slide across his shoulder as she moved away. "Good. Continue your observations."



Across the lab, Vishnu watched this exchange with poorly concealed jealousy. Devika caught his eye and offered a small smile that promised his turn would come. She continued circulating among the students, occasionally glancing at the high shelf where specialized equipment was stored.



Finally, she approached Vishnu's workstation. "I need the Gram stain kit," she said, gesturing toward the top shelf. "But it's rather high up."



Vishnu followed her gaze to the shelf well above her reach. "Should I get the stepladder from the storage room, Professor?"



Devika glanced around the lab, noting that most students were absorbed in their work, their attention directed to their microscopes. "No, that would take too long. Could you lift me? Just for a moment?"



Vishnu's eyes widened, his breath catching visibly. "Lift you, Professor?"



"Yes," she nodded, her voice matter-of-fact despite the inappropriate request. "I'm quite light, and it would be the quickest solution."



Vishnu hesitated, conflict evident in his expression—desire warring with disbelief at what she was suggesting.



"Unless you'd prefer I ask someone else," Devika added, a slight challenge in her tone.



"No, no," he said quickly. "I can do it."



He bent slightly, wrapping his arms awkwardly around her waist. Devika placed her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself as he straightened, lifting her off the ground. Her waist was directly in front of his face now, the pleats of her saree opening slightly with the upward movement, offering glimpses of her petticoat beneath.



"A little higher," she instructed, her voice soft but commanding.



Vishnu adjusted his grip, his hands sliding down to support her better, fingers pressing into the softness of her buttocks through the saree. He gave a small jerk upward, lifting her higher, causing her to gasp slightly at the sudden movement.



"Yes, that's perfect," she murmured, reaching for the shelf.



Vishnu stood frozen, unable to believe his position—holding his professor aloft, her thighs partially exposed where the saree had ridden up, her waist at his eye level. He could smell the sandalwood lotion on her skin, could feel the curves of her body against his arms and chest. The situation was so beyond his expectations that it felt like a fever dream.



Devika took longer than necessary to locate the kit, allowing Vishnu to experience the full weight and feel of her body in his arms. When she finally grasped it, she looked down at him. "You can lower me now."



Instead of simply setting her down, Vishnu slowly slid her body down along his, creating a full-length contact that sent electricity through both of them. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her stomach against his, their faces momentarily aligned as she descended. Even when her feet touched the ground, he didn't immediately release her, one hand lingering at her waist, the other resting lightly against the curve of her buttock.



"Thank you, Vishnu," she said softly, making no immediate move to step away from his hold.



They stood together for a heartbeat too long, bodies nearly touching, his hand still possessively at her waist. Around them, the laboratory continued its normal activities, though a few students had noticed the unusually intimate interaction between professor and student.



"You should let go now," Devika finally whispered, though her tone carried no real rebuke.



Vishnu seemed to come back to himself, withdrawing his hands reluctantly. "Sorry, Professor," he mumbled, though his eyes said he wasn't sorry at all.



Devika moved away, carrying the kit to a workstation, feeling Vishnu's gaze following her like a physical touch. She caught Pathan watching as well, his eyes narrowed with what might have been jealousy at the intimate contact he had witnessed.



For the remainder of the practical session, Devika maintained a professional demeanor, though the undercurrent of tension remained. Both Pathan and Vishnu found reasons to be near her, to ask questions that required her close attention, their bodies gravitating toward hers like planets caught in orbit.



When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the session, Devika dismissed the class with practiced composure. "Please complete your observations and submit your reports by Wednesday," she instructed, gathering her materials.



As the students filed out, Pathan and Vishnu lingered, their movements slow and reluctant, as if leaving her presence required physical effort. Devika felt their eyes on her as she organized microscope slides, their hunger palpable even from across the room.



"Good work today," she said, offering them a final smile as they reached the door. "I look forward to seeing your reports."



They nodded, mumbling acknowledgments, their eyes still fixed on her as they finally exited the laboratory. Alone at last, Devika released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The day's encounters had left her both exhilarated and unsettled—the growing boldness of her interactions with her students, the strange emptiness she felt at Ganapathi's absence.



She was playing a dangerous game, she knew—not just with her career, but with the men themselves. Pathan and Vishnu's faces had shown more than simple desire today; there had been possessiveness there, a growing obsession that might not be easily contained. Yet something in her couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, this exploration of power and desire that had begun with Ramlal and now extended to these young men, to Ganapathi, to boundaries she had never imagined crossing before.