06-07-2025, 07:04 PM
# Scene 1
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the apartment complex as Devika returned from the college, her mind still vibrating with the day's encounters. Her body felt electric, charged by the lingering sensation of Vishnu's hands at her waist, the heat of Pathan's gaze following her movements through the laboratory. She paused at the entrance, searching instinctively for Ramlal's familiar figure at the security desk, but the small wooden chair sat empty, his weathered cap hanging on a nail beside it.
A note scrawled in Hindi explained his absence—gone to the market for supplies, back soon. Devika felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. After the heightened tension of her interactions with Pathan and Vishnu, she had half-expected, half-hoped for Ramlal's appreciative gaze as she passed, a small affirmation of the desirability she had been cultivating all day.
She climbed the stairs to her apartment, each step echoing in the quiet stairwell. Inside, she locked the door behind her and moved immediately to the bedroom, unfastening the hooks of her navy blue blouse with practiced fingers. The formal saree and restrictive blouse that had served as professional armor all day now felt stifling, the weight of propriety too heavy for her private hours.
Devika selected a simple cotton saree in pale yellow, lightweight and casual, dbanging it loosely around her body. Beneath it, she chose a sleeveless blouse that left her arms bare, the cotton soft against her skin still warm from the day's heat. She released her hair from its tight bun, massaging her scalp where the pins had pressed too firmly. Without the jasmine flowers that had adorned it for work, her hair fell in dark waves past her shoulders, framing her face in a softer, more intimate way than her colleagues or students ever witnessed.
The television provided background noise as she moved about the apartment, preparing a cup of tea, arranging cushions on the sofa. She settled into the soft embrace of the cushions, remote in hand, flipping idly through channels without really seeing what passed before her eyes. Her mind refused to focus on the screen, drifting instead to memories of the storm-swept night, of Ganapathi's small home, of his body pressed against hers on the thin mat.
"What was I thinking?" she whispered to the empty room, her fingers unconsciously moving to her waist where the bruises had faded but the memory of his touch remained imprinted on her skin. The intimacy they had shared felt both alarming and oddly comforting in retrospect—his weathered hands on her bare stomach, his breath warm against her neck as they slept. She had allowed a sixty-year-old peon to hold her through the night, had woken dbangd across his body like a lover.
A flash of movement on the television screen caught her attention, pulling her from her reverie. The channel had changed to a romantic film, and the scene unfolding showed the hero and heroine locked in a passionate embrace. Their lips met not in the chaste, barely-touching kisses of typical Indian cinema, but in a desperate, hungry collision. The camera lingered on their mouths as they opened to each other, tongues visibly exploring, teeth gently catching on lips, saliva glistening in the dim light.
Devika's breath caught in her throat. The raw intimacy of the kiss mesmerized her—so different from anything she had experienced with Anand. Her husband's kisses had always been perfunctory, dry press of closed lips, a formality observed rather than a pleasure shared. Even when she had tried to deepen their kisses, parting her lips in invitation, he had pulled away, uncomfortable with what he deemed excessive.
"How can they kiss like that?" she murmured, leaning forward slightly as the scene continued, the couple on screen devouring each other with unrestrained passion. "They're actors, not even real lovers. Yet they seem to... enjoy it."
The realization struck her suddenly—in all her recent explorations, all the boundaries she had allowed men to cross with her body, she had never permitted a kiss. Not Ramlal when his hands had roamed her waist during their cooking lesson. Not Seenu when his fingers had traced patterns on her stomach in his office. Not Ganapathi when his mouth had pressed hot against her shoulder in the auto-rickshaw.
Her lips remained untouched, a final frontier she had unconsciously preserved, perhaps for someone younger, more handsome—for the fantasy lover she had imagined in her loneliest moments. She had thought herself saving this ultimate intimacy for Pathan or Vishnu, drawn to their youth, their vitality. But that path led to danger she couldn't risk, to complications that might destroy the careful balance she maintained between desire and propriety.
On screen, the kiss had ended, but the image remained burned in her mind. She touched her fingers to her lips, feeling their softness, imagining how it would feel to have another's mouth pressed against them, another's tongue slipping between them. The desire rose in her like a wave, unexpected in its intensity.
Her thoughts drifted to porn videos she had glimpsed online, searching for education about the physical intimacy her marriage lacked. She recalled scenes of older men kissing younger women with surprising passion, their experience compensating for what they lacked in conventional attractiveness. The memory sent a shiver through her body, a reluctant acknowledgment that age need not diminish desire or skill.
"But they all chew paan," she whispered, her mind cycling through images of Ramlal, Seenu, and Ganapathi, their teeth stained red from the habit, their breath likely flavored with the mixture of betel nut and tobacco. She imagined their lips against hers, their tongues entering her mouth, and felt a confusing mixture of revulsion and curiosity.
Her own mouth was clean, her lips soft and rosy, untainted by such habits. The thought of allowing these men access to this last pure part of herself felt like a final surrender, a crossing of a threshold from which she couldn't return. Yet the urge to experience what she had just witnessed on screen grew stronger with each passing moment.
Devika stood abruptly, pacing the small living room. She needed to make a choice, to select from her unlikely suitors the one who would introduce her to this pleasure she had denied herself. Seenu carried too much professional risk, his position as department head giving him power that could be wielded against her. Ganapathi, while unexpectedly tender, lived too far away to approach casually, and the memory of their night together still unsettled her.
Ramlal, then. The security guard whose eyes had followed her for months, whose hands had already learned the contours of her waist during their cooking lesson, whose position gave him access to her home without raising suspicions. Ramlal, who existed in a perfect middle ground—close enough to reach, distant enough to control.
"But how?" she asked herself, resuming her seat on the sofa. She couldn't simply ask him to kiss her—such directness would surrender too much power, would transform her from object of desire to desperate supplicant. She needed a pretext, a scenario that would allow the kiss to unfold as if by accident, as if neither had planned it.
Devika reached for her tea, now cold, and sipped it thoughtfully. She needed a plan, a strategy that would bring Ramlal's lips to hers while maintaining the fiction that she remained in control, that she was still the professor being admired rather than the woman actively seeking satisfaction of her desires.
# Scene 2
A memory surfaced suddenly, clear as yesterday—Ramlal standing in her kitchen, speaking of kulfi with words that dripped with suggestion. "Very creamy, very sweet," he had said, his eyes holding hers with meaning that transcended the simple dessert. "When you put in mouth, it melts slowly on tongue." And later, their conversation about mangoes, his fingers tracing the air in the shape of the fruit, describing how to suck the juice from its flesh. Devika's lips parted unconsciously at the recollection, her pulse quickening as an idea took shape.
Kulfi. The perfect pretext. She could ask Ramlal to bring her the frozen treat, invite him inside, and then... Her mind raced ahead, constructing the scenario with meticulous attention. She would need a reason why she couldn't eat it herself, why she would need him to feed her. The pieces fell into place with surprising ease, as if her subconscious had been crafting this plan all along.
"It could work," she whispered, her fingers drumming against her thigh. The request wouldn't seem strange given their previous conversations. She could guide him from feeding her kulfi to the kiss she craved, a natural progression that would feel spontaneous rather than calculated.
Before she could reconsider, Devika reached for the intercom mounted near her door. Her finger hovered over the button for a moment, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Was she really going to do this? Ask the security guard to bring her dessert as a prelude to her first real kiss in years?
She pressed the button firmly, decision made.
"Security desk," Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker, confirming he had returned to his post.
"Ramlal," she said, deliberately softening her voice, allowing a hint of intimate familiarity to color his name. "It's Professor Devika."
"Yes, madam? Is everything all right?" His concern was immediate, professional.
She twirled the end of her loose hair around one finger, though he couldn't see the girlish gesture. "Everything's fine. I was just wondering... do you remember our conversation about kulfi?"
A brief silence followed, loaded with understanding. "Yes, madam. I remember."
"I've been thinking about it all day," she continued, her voice dropping lower, the words falling like honey from her lips. "That creamy sweetness you described. I can almost taste it."
Another pause, longer this time. When Ramlal spoke again, his voice had changed, deepened slightly. "It is very delicious, madam."
"Could you bring some to my apartment?" The request hung in the air between them, its implications clear despite its innocence. "I'd be very grateful."
"Kulfi? Now?" He sounded both stunned and pleased.
"Yes, now," she confirmed, allowing a small laugh to escape. "Unless you're too busy with your duties?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "For you, I can manage. The small shop near the corner sells good kulfi. I will bring in few minutes."
"Thank you, Ramlal," she purred. "The door will be open. Just come in when you arrive."
She released the intercom button and pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. Had she really just done that? Invited the security guard to her apartment with words so laden with suggestion they barely maintained the pretense of innocence?
Devika moved quickly through the apartment, suddenly aware of how little time she had to prepare. Her plan needed one more element—a reason why she couldn't feed herself, why she would need Ramlal's hands to bring the kulfi to her lips.
In her bedroom, she rummaged through a drawer until she found a small tube of mehandi paste left over from last year's Diwali celebrations. Perfect. She squeezed a small amount onto her palm and began to apply simple designs to both hands, working swiftly. Nothing elaborate—just enough to make her claim believable.
As she worked, her heartbeat refused to slow, each pulse sending waves of anticipation and anxiety through her body. What if Ramlal misunderstood? What if he understood too well? The boundary she was preparing to cross felt more significant than those she had already traversed. Her waist, her stomach, her back—these were territories she had surrendered to various hands, yet her lips remained unclaimed, a final frontier of intimacy.
The mehandi designs took shape—simple vines and dots adorning her palms and the backs of her hands. She blew gently on the paste, encouraging it to dry, her mind racing ahead to the moment when Ramlal would stand before her, kulfi in hand, eyes questioning.
A knock at the door sent her heart leaping to her throat. "Come in," she called, her voice steadier than she felt. "The door is open."
Ramlal entered hesitantly, a small cardboard box clutched in his hands. He wore his usual khaki uniform, though he had removed his cap, his graying hair combed neatly to one side. His eyes found her immediately where she sat on the sofa, the pale yellow saree dbangd loosely around her body, her hair flowing freely down her shoulders. Something flashed in his expression—surprise at her casual appearance, perhaps, or appreciation for the softer vision she presented compared to her usual professional armor.
"Good evening, madam," he said, remaining near the door as if uncertain of his welcome despite her invitation. "I brought kulfi."
Devika smiled, gesturing toward the small coffee table before her. "Please, bring it here. What kind did you get?"
Ramlal approached, placing the box on the table with careful movements. He opened the lid to reveal not one or two kulfi, but at least eight, arranged neatly in the box.
She couldn't suppress a laugh, the tension breaking momentarily. "Ramlal! Why so many?"
A hint of embarrassment colored his weathered features, but his eyes held a hint of mischief. "I couldn't decide which flavor you might like best, madam. So I bought all the ones they had." He paused, then added with unexpected candor, "Truth is, if I had more money in my pocket, I would have bought the entire shop for you."
The simple declaration, offered without artifice, touched something in Devika. This man, this aging security guard with paan-stained teeth and calloused hands, had spent a significant portion of his day's wages to fulfill her whim.
"That's very sweet of you," she said softly.
Ramlal nodded, his moment of boldness apparently spent. He arranged the box more precisely on the table and began to step back. "Will that be all, madam? I should return to my post."
"Actually," Devika said quickly, holding up her hands to display the drying mehandi patterns, "I find myself with a small problem. I applied mehandi just before you arrived—a sudden impulse—and now I can't touch anything until it dries completely."
Ramlal's eyes moved from her hands to her face, confusion evident in his expression. "I see, madam. Would you like me to come back later, when it's dry?"
"No," she said, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. "I was hoping you might... help me. I've been thinking about that kulfi all day, and now I can't even eat it myself."
Understanding dawned slowly in his eyes, transforming confusion to disbelief. "You want me to... feed you the kulfi, madam?"
"If you don't mind," she said, her voice a deliberate blend of innocence and invitation. "I can't use my hands, you see."
Ramlal stood frozen, his gaze moving between her hennaed hands and her face, as if searching for confirmation that he hadn't misunderstood. "You want me to feed you?" he repeated.
"Yes," she confirmed, meeting his eyes directly. "Unless that would make you uncomfortable?"
He swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "No, madam. Not uncomfortable. Just..." He trailed off, apparently unable to articulate the tumult of emotions her request had triggered.
"I've never had kulfi before," Devika added, the lie falling easily from her lips. "You'll need to guide me. Show me how to eat it properly."
Something shifted in Ramlal's expression—surprise giving way to something darker, more focused. He understood now, or thought he did, the nature of the game they were playing. "Yes, madam," he said, his voice rougher than before. "I can teach you how to enjoy kulfi properly."
# Scene 3
Ramlal's fingers trembled slightly as he selected a kulfi from the box, the malai flavor with its pale, creamy surface. He peeled back the wrapper with deliberate slowness, aware of Devika watching his every movement from the sofa, her hennaed hands resting uselessly in her lap. The frozen treat emerged, cylindrical and pristine, catching the soft lamplight as he held it before her. Their eyes met over this innocent confection that had somehow transformed into something else entirely—a prop in a performance neither had planned yet both now eagerly anticipated.
He moved closer, standing before her, the kulfi held cautiously to avoid drips as it began to soften in the warm evening air. Devika looked up at him, her neck arched slightly, her lips parted in expectation. The position created an unmistakable tableau—the standing man, the seated woman, the offering extended between them.
"How should I begin?" she asked, her voice deliberately innocent despite the charged atmosphere. "I've never done this before."
Ramlal's throat worked as he swallowed, gathering his courage. "First, madam, you must lick the tip," he instructed, his voice rougher than usual. "Just taste it, feel its coolness on your tongue."
He lowered the kulfi to her face, holding it just inches from her lips. Devika leaned forward slightly, her eyes locked with his, and extended her tongue in a delicate point. The pink flesh made contact with the creamy surface, leaving a small indentation. She drew her tongue back into her mouth, savoring the sweetness.
"Mmm," she hummed, the sound vibrating in her throat. "It is delicious. Very smooth."
"Yes," Ramlal agreed, his gaze fixed on her mouth. "Now lick more, madam. Make it wet all around the tip."
Devika complied, her tongue emerging again to trace slow circles around the top of the kulfi. She kept her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving his face as she followed his instructions with an eagerness that belied her claimed inexperience. Her tongue flattened against the cold surface, dragging upward, leaving a glistening trail across the creamy dessert.
"Like this?" she asked between licks, her voice honeyed with feigned naivety.
"Yes, just like that," Ramlal affirmed, his breathing becoming more audible in the quiet apartment. "Now, madam, take the tip between your lips. Gently suck it, feel it melting in your mouth."
Devika parted her lips, allowing the kulfi to slip between them. She closed her mouth around the top inch, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she created the suction he had requested. The cold sweetness spread across her tongue, pooling at the back of her throat. She released the kulfi with a soft pop, her lips now glistening with moisture.
"It's so cold," she murmured, "but I like it. I'm enjoying this... lesson."
The kulfi had begun to melt in earnest now, a thin rivulet of cream escaping down the side. Before it could reach Ramlal's fingers, it changed course, tracking down the opposite side and falling in a single drop onto Devika's chin.
"Oh," she gasped, unable to wipe it away with her hennaed hands.
Ramlal's eyes darkened at the sight of the white droplet against her golden skin. "Don't move, madam," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll take care of it."
She expected him to offer a napkin. Instead, his thumb rose to her chin, gently wiping away the drop of melted kulfi. The contact was brief but electric, his weathered skin rough against the softness of her face. He withdrew his hand quickly, as if surprised by his own boldness.
"It's melting fast," he observed, his eyes now fixed on the kulfi rather than her face. "You need to eat more quickly. Take it deeper into your mouth and suck harder."
Devika's heart fluttered at his increasingly explicit instructions, the thinly veiled double meaning of his words sending heat blooming across her skin. She leaned forward again, this time opening her mouth wider, allowing the kulfi to slide deeper inside.
"Yes," Ramlal encouraged, his voice tight with restraint. "Now, madam, keep your tongue busy while sucking. Move it around the kulfi, feel its shape."
She followed his direction, her tongue circling the cold cylinder, exploring its contours as she maintained the suction of her lips. The melting kulfi flooded her mouth with sweetness, threatening to overflow. She swallowed quickly, the movement of her throat visible to Ramlal's watching eyes.
Something changed in his demeanor—a threshold crossed from hesitant participant to active guide. He began to move the kulfi, sliding it deeper into her mouth, then withdrawing it to the edge of her lips before pushing forward again. The rhythmic motion left no doubt about what it mimicked, what act they were simulaing without acknowledging.
"Keep sucking, madam," he instructed, his breathing now uneven. "Make sure to keep your tongue busy."
His free hand moved to cup the back of her head, steadying her as he continued the gentle in-and-out motion of the kulfi. His fingers threaded into her loose hair, the contact surprisingly intimate, more so even than the suggestive feeding. Devika's eyes fluttered closed, allowing herself to be guided by his hand, accepting the kulfi as it moved between her lips.
"Ah," Ramlal groaned, the sound escaping him unbidden. "You like my kulfi, madam? It tastes good?"
Devika answered with a muffled sound of agreement, unable to speak with her mouth full. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with naked desire, all pretense of professional deference abandoned in this private moment. He was breathing through his mouth now, his lips parted, mirroring hers in unconscious sympathy.
The kulfi had diminished significantly, melting and consumed until only a small portion remained. Ramlal pushed it fully into her mouth one final time, his fingers brushing against her lips as he released it.
"Finish it," he whispered hoarsely. "Take all of it."
Devika closed her lips, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked the remaining kulfi into a liquid state, swallowing the final mouthful with deliberate slowness. When she opened her mouth again, it was empty, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of sweetness from the corner of her lips.
"It's gone," she said, her voice husky. "All of it."
Ramlal stood motionless before her, the empty stick still clutched in his fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The air between them seemed to vibrate with unspoken desires, with boundaries pushed to their limits but not yet breached.
"Was that your first time eating kulfi, madam?" he asked finally, his attempt at returning to their pretense undermined by the roughness of his voice.
"Yes," she replied, maintaining the fiction. "My very first time. But I find I'm still hungry." She glanced meaningfully at the box on the table. "Perhaps another? I'd like to practice more... technique."
Ramlal's eyes darkened further at her words. He dropped the empty stick onto the table and reached for another kulfi with newfound confidence. As he unwrapped it, Devika watched his hands—the same hands that had measured her waist, that had lingered at the small of her back when guiding her through the apartment complex, that now prepared to feed her in this most intimate way.
"This one is kesar pista," he said, revealing the pale yellow-green surface of the saffron-pistachio kulfi. "Different flavor, but same approach." He paused, then added with unexpected boldness, "Unless you want to try something new?"
The question hung between them, loaded with possibility. Devika's gaze moved from the kulfi to Ramlal's face, to his lips stained slightly red from years of paan-chewing. The final barrier she had been contemplating all evening stood before her, waiting to be crossed.
"Let's start with what we know," she said softly, her eyes holding his as she leaned forward once more. "Then perhaps... we can explore new techniques."
Ramlal nodded, understanding the promise in her words. He brought the fresh kulfi to her waiting lips, his hand steadier now, his movements more assured. The heat between them continued to build as the second round began, each knowing that the innocent dessert was merely a prelude to the true hunger neither had yet dared to name.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the apartment complex as Devika returned from the college, her mind still vibrating with the day's encounters. Her body felt electric, charged by the lingering sensation of Vishnu's hands at her waist, the heat of Pathan's gaze following her movements through the laboratory. She paused at the entrance, searching instinctively for Ramlal's familiar figure at the security desk, but the small wooden chair sat empty, his weathered cap hanging on a nail beside it.
A note scrawled in Hindi explained his absence—gone to the market for supplies, back soon. Devika felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. After the heightened tension of her interactions with Pathan and Vishnu, she had half-expected, half-hoped for Ramlal's appreciative gaze as she passed, a small affirmation of the desirability she had been cultivating all day.
She climbed the stairs to her apartment, each step echoing in the quiet stairwell. Inside, she locked the door behind her and moved immediately to the bedroom, unfastening the hooks of her navy blue blouse with practiced fingers. The formal saree and restrictive blouse that had served as professional armor all day now felt stifling, the weight of propriety too heavy for her private hours.
Devika selected a simple cotton saree in pale yellow, lightweight and casual, dbanging it loosely around her body. Beneath it, she chose a sleeveless blouse that left her arms bare, the cotton soft against her skin still warm from the day's heat. She released her hair from its tight bun, massaging her scalp where the pins had pressed too firmly. Without the jasmine flowers that had adorned it for work, her hair fell in dark waves past her shoulders, framing her face in a softer, more intimate way than her colleagues or students ever witnessed.
The television provided background noise as she moved about the apartment, preparing a cup of tea, arranging cushions on the sofa. She settled into the soft embrace of the cushions, remote in hand, flipping idly through channels without really seeing what passed before her eyes. Her mind refused to focus on the screen, drifting instead to memories of the storm-swept night, of Ganapathi's small home, of his body pressed against hers on the thin mat.
"What was I thinking?" she whispered to the empty room, her fingers unconsciously moving to her waist where the bruises had faded but the memory of his touch remained imprinted on her skin. The intimacy they had shared felt both alarming and oddly comforting in retrospect—his weathered hands on her bare stomach, his breath warm against her neck as they slept. She had allowed a sixty-year-old peon to hold her through the night, had woken dbangd across his body like a lover.
A flash of movement on the television screen caught her attention, pulling her from her reverie. The channel had changed to a romantic film, and the scene unfolding showed the hero and heroine locked in a passionate embrace. Their lips met not in the chaste, barely-touching kisses of typical Indian cinema, but in a desperate, hungry collision. The camera lingered on their mouths as they opened to each other, tongues visibly exploring, teeth gently catching on lips, saliva glistening in the dim light.
Devika's breath caught in her throat. The raw intimacy of the kiss mesmerized her—so different from anything she had experienced with Anand. Her husband's kisses had always been perfunctory, dry press of closed lips, a formality observed rather than a pleasure shared. Even when she had tried to deepen their kisses, parting her lips in invitation, he had pulled away, uncomfortable with what he deemed excessive.
"How can they kiss like that?" she murmured, leaning forward slightly as the scene continued, the couple on screen devouring each other with unrestrained passion. "They're actors, not even real lovers. Yet they seem to... enjoy it."
The realization struck her suddenly—in all her recent explorations, all the boundaries she had allowed men to cross with her body, she had never permitted a kiss. Not Ramlal when his hands had roamed her waist during their cooking lesson. Not Seenu when his fingers had traced patterns on her stomach in his office. Not Ganapathi when his mouth had pressed hot against her shoulder in the auto-rickshaw.
Her lips remained untouched, a final frontier she had unconsciously preserved, perhaps for someone younger, more handsome—for the fantasy lover she had imagined in her loneliest moments. She had thought herself saving this ultimate intimacy for Pathan or Vishnu, drawn to their youth, their vitality. But that path led to danger she couldn't risk, to complications that might destroy the careful balance she maintained between desire and propriety.
On screen, the kiss had ended, but the image remained burned in her mind. She touched her fingers to her lips, feeling their softness, imagining how it would feel to have another's mouth pressed against them, another's tongue slipping between them. The desire rose in her like a wave, unexpected in its intensity.
Her thoughts drifted to porn videos she had glimpsed online, searching for education about the physical intimacy her marriage lacked. She recalled scenes of older men kissing younger women with surprising passion, their experience compensating for what they lacked in conventional attractiveness. The memory sent a shiver through her body, a reluctant acknowledgment that age need not diminish desire or skill.
"But they all chew paan," she whispered, her mind cycling through images of Ramlal, Seenu, and Ganapathi, their teeth stained red from the habit, their breath likely flavored with the mixture of betel nut and tobacco. She imagined their lips against hers, their tongues entering her mouth, and felt a confusing mixture of revulsion and curiosity.
Her own mouth was clean, her lips soft and rosy, untainted by such habits. The thought of allowing these men access to this last pure part of herself felt like a final surrender, a crossing of a threshold from which she couldn't return. Yet the urge to experience what she had just witnessed on screen grew stronger with each passing moment.
Devika stood abruptly, pacing the small living room. She needed to make a choice, to select from her unlikely suitors the one who would introduce her to this pleasure she had denied herself. Seenu carried too much professional risk, his position as department head giving him power that could be wielded against her. Ganapathi, while unexpectedly tender, lived too far away to approach casually, and the memory of their night together still unsettled her.
Ramlal, then. The security guard whose eyes had followed her for months, whose hands had already learned the contours of her waist during their cooking lesson, whose position gave him access to her home without raising suspicions. Ramlal, who existed in a perfect middle ground—close enough to reach, distant enough to control.
"But how?" she asked herself, resuming her seat on the sofa. She couldn't simply ask him to kiss her—such directness would surrender too much power, would transform her from object of desire to desperate supplicant. She needed a pretext, a scenario that would allow the kiss to unfold as if by accident, as if neither had planned it.
Devika reached for her tea, now cold, and sipped it thoughtfully. She needed a plan, a strategy that would bring Ramlal's lips to hers while maintaining the fiction that she remained in control, that she was still the professor being admired rather than the woman actively seeking satisfaction of her desires.
# Scene 2
A memory surfaced suddenly, clear as yesterday—Ramlal standing in her kitchen, speaking of kulfi with words that dripped with suggestion. "Very creamy, very sweet," he had said, his eyes holding hers with meaning that transcended the simple dessert. "When you put in mouth, it melts slowly on tongue." And later, their conversation about mangoes, his fingers tracing the air in the shape of the fruit, describing how to suck the juice from its flesh. Devika's lips parted unconsciously at the recollection, her pulse quickening as an idea took shape.
Kulfi. The perfect pretext. She could ask Ramlal to bring her the frozen treat, invite him inside, and then... Her mind raced ahead, constructing the scenario with meticulous attention. She would need a reason why she couldn't eat it herself, why she would need him to feed her. The pieces fell into place with surprising ease, as if her subconscious had been crafting this plan all along.
"It could work," she whispered, her fingers drumming against her thigh. The request wouldn't seem strange given their previous conversations. She could guide him from feeding her kulfi to the kiss she craved, a natural progression that would feel spontaneous rather than calculated.
Before she could reconsider, Devika reached for the intercom mounted near her door. Her finger hovered over the button for a moment, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Was she really going to do this? Ask the security guard to bring her dessert as a prelude to her first real kiss in years?
She pressed the button firmly, decision made.
"Security desk," Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker, confirming he had returned to his post.
"Ramlal," she said, deliberately softening her voice, allowing a hint of intimate familiarity to color his name. "It's Professor Devika."
"Yes, madam? Is everything all right?" His concern was immediate, professional.
She twirled the end of her loose hair around one finger, though he couldn't see the girlish gesture. "Everything's fine. I was just wondering... do you remember our conversation about kulfi?"
A brief silence followed, loaded with understanding. "Yes, madam. I remember."
"I've been thinking about it all day," she continued, her voice dropping lower, the words falling like honey from her lips. "That creamy sweetness you described. I can almost taste it."
Another pause, longer this time. When Ramlal spoke again, his voice had changed, deepened slightly. "It is very delicious, madam."
"Could you bring some to my apartment?" The request hung in the air between them, its implications clear despite its innocence. "I'd be very grateful."
"Kulfi? Now?" He sounded both stunned and pleased.
"Yes, now," she confirmed, allowing a small laugh to escape. "Unless you're too busy with your duties?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "For you, I can manage. The small shop near the corner sells good kulfi. I will bring in few minutes."
"Thank you, Ramlal," she purred. "The door will be open. Just come in when you arrive."
She released the intercom button and pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. Had she really just done that? Invited the security guard to her apartment with words so laden with suggestion they barely maintained the pretense of innocence?
Devika moved quickly through the apartment, suddenly aware of how little time she had to prepare. Her plan needed one more element—a reason why she couldn't feed herself, why she would need Ramlal's hands to bring the kulfi to her lips.
In her bedroom, she rummaged through a drawer until she found a small tube of mehandi paste left over from last year's Diwali celebrations. Perfect. She squeezed a small amount onto her palm and began to apply simple designs to both hands, working swiftly. Nothing elaborate—just enough to make her claim believable.
As she worked, her heartbeat refused to slow, each pulse sending waves of anticipation and anxiety through her body. What if Ramlal misunderstood? What if he understood too well? The boundary she was preparing to cross felt more significant than those she had already traversed. Her waist, her stomach, her back—these were territories she had surrendered to various hands, yet her lips remained unclaimed, a final frontier of intimacy.
The mehandi designs took shape—simple vines and dots adorning her palms and the backs of her hands. She blew gently on the paste, encouraging it to dry, her mind racing ahead to the moment when Ramlal would stand before her, kulfi in hand, eyes questioning.
A knock at the door sent her heart leaping to her throat. "Come in," she called, her voice steadier than she felt. "The door is open."
Ramlal entered hesitantly, a small cardboard box clutched in his hands. He wore his usual khaki uniform, though he had removed his cap, his graying hair combed neatly to one side. His eyes found her immediately where she sat on the sofa, the pale yellow saree dbangd loosely around her body, her hair flowing freely down her shoulders. Something flashed in his expression—surprise at her casual appearance, perhaps, or appreciation for the softer vision she presented compared to her usual professional armor.
"Good evening, madam," he said, remaining near the door as if uncertain of his welcome despite her invitation. "I brought kulfi."
Devika smiled, gesturing toward the small coffee table before her. "Please, bring it here. What kind did you get?"
Ramlal approached, placing the box on the table with careful movements. He opened the lid to reveal not one or two kulfi, but at least eight, arranged neatly in the box.
She couldn't suppress a laugh, the tension breaking momentarily. "Ramlal! Why so many?"
A hint of embarrassment colored his weathered features, but his eyes held a hint of mischief. "I couldn't decide which flavor you might like best, madam. So I bought all the ones they had." He paused, then added with unexpected candor, "Truth is, if I had more money in my pocket, I would have bought the entire shop for you."
The simple declaration, offered without artifice, touched something in Devika. This man, this aging security guard with paan-stained teeth and calloused hands, had spent a significant portion of his day's wages to fulfill her whim.
"That's very sweet of you," she said softly.
Ramlal nodded, his moment of boldness apparently spent. He arranged the box more precisely on the table and began to step back. "Will that be all, madam? I should return to my post."
"Actually," Devika said quickly, holding up her hands to display the drying mehandi patterns, "I find myself with a small problem. I applied mehandi just before you arrived—a sudden impulse—and now I can't touch anything until it dries completely."
Ramlal's eyes moved from her hands to her face, confusion evident in his expression. "I see, madam. Would you like me to come back later, when it's dry?"
"No," she said, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. "I was hoping you might... help me. I've been thinking about that kulfi all day, and now I can't even eat it myself."
Understanding dawned slowly in his eyes, transforming confusion to disbelief. "You want me to... feed you the kulfi, madam?"
"If you don't mind," she said, her voice a deliberate blend of innocence and invitation. "I can't use my hands, you see."
Ramlal stood frozen, his gaze moving between her hennaed hands and her face, as if searching for confirmation that he hadn't misunderstood. "You want me to feed you?" he repeated.
"Yes," she confirmed, meeting his eyes directly. "Unless that would make you uncomfortable?"
He swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "No, madam. Not uncomfortable. Just..." He trailed off, apparently unable to articulate the tumult of emotions her request had triggered.
"I've never had kulfi before," Devika added, the lie falling easily from her lips. "You'll need to guide me. Show me how to eat it properly."
Something shifted in Ramlal's expression—surprise giving way to something darker, more focused. He understood now, or thought he did, the nature of the game they were playing. "Yes, madam," he said, his voice rougher than before. "I can teach you how to enjoy kulfi properly."
# Scene 3
Ramlal's fingers trembled slightly as he selected a kulfi from the box, the malai flavor with its pale, creamy surface. He peeled back the wrapper with deliberate slowness, aware of Devika watching his every movement from the sofa, her hennaed hands resting uselessly in her lap. The frozen treat emerged, cylindrical and pristine, catching the soft lamplight as he held it before her. Their eyes met over this innocent confection that had somehow transformed into something else entirely—a prop in a performance neither had planned yet both now eagerly anticipated.
He moved closer, standing before her, the kulfi held cautiously to avoid drips as it began to soften in the warm evening air. Devika looked up at him, her neck arched slightly, her lips parted in expectation. The position created an unmistakable tableau—the standing man, the seated woman, the offering extended between them.
"How should I begin?" she asked, her voice deliberately innocent despite the charged atmosphere. "I've never done this before."
Ramlal's throat worked as he swallowed, gathering his courage. "First, madam, you must lick the tip," he instructed, his voice rougher than usual. "Just taste it, feel its coolness on your tongue."
He lowered the kulfi to her face, holding it just inches from her lips. Devika leaned forward slightly, her eyes locked with his, and extended her tongue in a delicate point. The pink flesh made contact with the creamy surface, leaving a small indentation. She drew her tongue back into her mouth, savoring the sweetness.
"Mmm," she hummed, the sound vibrating in her throat. "It is delicious. Very smooth."
"Yes," Ramlal agreed, his gaze fixed on her mouth. "Now lick more, madam. Make it wet all around the tip."
Devika complied, her tongue emerging again to trace slow circles around the top of the kulfi. She kept her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving his face as she followed his instructions with an eagerness that belied her claimed inexperience. Her tongue flattened against the cold surface, dragging upward, leaving a glistening trail across the creamy dessert.
"Like this?" she asked between licks, her voice honeyed with feigned naivety.
"Yes, just like that," Ramlal affirmed, his breathing becoming more audible in the quiet apartment. "Now, madam, take the tip between your lips. Gently suck it, feel it melting in your mouth."
Devika parted her lips, allowing the kulfi to slip between them. She closed her mouth around the top inch, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she created the suction he had requested. The cold sweetness spread across her tongue, pooling at the back of her throat. She released the kulfi with a soft pop, her lips now glistening with moisture.
"It's so cold," she murmured, "but I like it. I'm enjoying this... lesson."
The kulfi had begun to melt in earnest now, a thin rivulet of cream escaping down the side. Before it could reach Ramlal's fingers, it changed course, tracking down the opposite side and falling in a single drop onto Devika's chin.
"Oh," she gasped, unable to wipe it away with her hennaed hands.
Ramlal's eyes darkened at the sight of the white droplet against her golden skin. "Don't move, madam," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll take care of it."
She expected him to offer a napkin. Instead, his thumb rose to her chin, gently wiping away the drop of melted kulfi. The contact was brief but electric, his weathered skin rough against the softness of her face. He withdrew his hand quickly, as if surprised by his own boldness.
"It's melting fast," he observed, his eyes now fixed on the kulfi rather than her face. "You need to eat more quickly. Take it deeper into your mouth and suck harder."
Devika's heart fluttered at his increasingly explicit instructions, the thinly veiled double meaning of his words sending heat blooming across her skin. She leaned forward again, this time opening her mouth wider, allowing the kulfi to slide deeper inside.
"Yes," Ramlal encouraged, his voice tight with restraint. "Now, madam, keep your tongue busy while sucking. Move it around the kulfi, feel its shape."
She followed his direction, her tongue circling the cold cylinder, exploring its contours as she maintained the suction of her lips. The melting kulfi flooded her mouth with sweetness, threatening to overflow. She swallowed quickly, the movement of her throat visible to Ramlal's watching eyes.
Something changed in his demeanor—a threshold crossed from hesitant participant to active guide. He began to move the kulfi, sliding it deeper into her mouth, then withdrawing it to the edge of her lips before pushing forward again. The rhythmic motion left no doubt about what it mimicked, what act they were simulaing without acknowledging.
"Keep sucking, madam," he instructed, his breathing now uneven. "Make sure to keep your tongue busy."
His free hand moved to cup the back of her head, steadying her as he continued the gentle in-and-out motion of the kulfi. His fingers threaded into her loose hair, the contact surprisingly intimate, more so even than the suggestive feeding. Devika's eyes fluttered closed, allowing herself to be guided by his hand, accepting the kulfi as it moved between her lips.
"Ah," Ramlal groaned, the sound escaping him unbidden. "You like my kulfi, madam? It tastes good?"
Devika answered with a muffled sound of agreement, unable to speak with her mouth full. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with naked desire, all pretense of professional deference abandoned in this private moment. He was breathing through his mouth now, his lips parted, mirroring hers in unconscious sympathy.
The kulfi had diminished significantly, melting and consumed until only a small portion remained. Ramlal pushed it fully into her mouth one final time, his fingers brushing against her lips as he released it.
"Finish it," he whispered hoarsely. "Take all of it."
Devika closed her lips, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked the remaining kulfi into a liquid state, swallowing the final mouthful with deliberate slowness. When she opened her mouth again, it was empty, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of sweetness from the corner of her lips.
"It's gone," she said, her voice husky. "All of it."
Ramlal stood motionless before her, the empty stick still clutched in his fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The air between them seemed to vibrate with unspoken desires, with boundaries pushed to their limits but not yet breached.
"Was that your first time eating kulfi, madam?" he asked finally, his attempt at returning to their pretense undermined by the roughness of his voice.
"Yes," she replied, maintaining the fiction. "My very first time. But I find I'm still hungry." She glanced meaningfully at the box on the table. "Perhaps another? I'd like to practice more... technique."
Ramlal's eyes darkened further at her words. He dropped the empty stick onto the table and reached for another kulfi with newfound confidence. As he unwrapped it, Devika watched his hands—the same hands that had measured her waist, that had lingered at the small of her back when guiding her through the apartment complex, that now prepared to feed her in this most intimate way.
"This one is kesar pista," he said, revealing the pale yellow-green surface of the saffron-pistachio kulfi. "Different flavor, but same approach." He paused, then added with unexpected boldness, "Unless you want to try something new?"
The question hung between them, loaded with possibility. Devika's gaze moved from the kulfi to Ramlal's face, to his lips stained slightly red from years of paan-chewing. The final barrier she had been contemplating all evening stood before her, waiting to be crossed.
"Let's start with what we know," she said softly, her eyes holding his as she leaned forward once more. "Then perhaps... we can explore new techniques."
Ramlal nodded, understanding the promise in her words. He brought the fresh kulfi to her waiting lips, his hand steadier now, his movements more assured. The heat between them continued to build as the second round began, each knowing that the innocent dessert was merely a prelude to the true hunger neither had yet dared to name.
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