Misc. Erotica Meera - The Math Teacher

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Episode 1 - The First Derivative

The bell for the first period at St. Mary’s High college, Bangalore, rang with the same metallic clang it had for the last twelve years. Arjun Rao, eighteen, lanky, and perpetually late, slid into the third bench from the back just as Mr. D’Souza, the physics teacher, turned from the blackboard with the weary expression of a man who had explained Newton’s third law to five generations of uninterested adolescents.

“Arjun, you’re late again,” D’Souza said without looking up, chalk dust drifting from his fingers like tired snow.

“Sorry, sir. Traffic on Hosur Road.” Arjun dropped his bag, pulled out a dog-eared NCERT, and nudged Vikram beside him. “What did I miss?”
Vikram, round-faced and perpetually chewing gum, whispered, “Nothing. He’s still on action-reaction. Same crap as last year. I swear if he says ‘for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction’ one more time, I’m going to throw my compass at him.”

Behind them, Rahul leaned over. “Compass? Too subtle. I’m thinking the entire geometry box. With the protractor as a shuriken.”

Snickers rippled. D’Souza’s voice droned on, a monotone river. “Imagine a rocket expelling gas… the gas pushes the rocket forward…”
Arjun tuned out. He opened his notebook to a fresh page and drew a small rocket anyway—The doodle had almond eyes and a half-smile he’d borrowed from a heroine in a movie he’d sneaked into last weekend.

“Arjun Rao!” D’Souza’s voice cracked like a whip. “What is the thrust equation?”

Arjun blinked. “Uh… F = m times a, sir?”

“Wrong. That’s force. Thrust is the force produced by the engine. Pay attention or you’ll be calculating your own trajectory out of this classroom.”

Vikram kicked Arjun’s shin under the desk. “Trajectory. Nice one. You’re doomed.”
The period crawled. D’Souza wrote equations that looked like ancient hieroglyphs. Someone at the back yawned so loudly it echoed. When the bell finally rang, the class exhaled as one organism.

“Second period—maths,” Rahul announced, stretching. “Ramakrishna sir better bring coffee. I’m dying.”

They shuffled to 12-A, the corner classroom on the second floor that smelled of old wood and new paint. The fans spun lazily; monsoon clouds pressed against the windows like nosy neighbours. Arjun claimed the same bench. Vikram dropped beside him, unwrapping a Cadbury he’d smuggled past the prefects.

“Ramakrishna sir said he’d start derivatives today,” Vikram mumbled through chocolate. “As if we care. I just need seventy percent to keep my dad off my back.”
Rahul slid into the bench ahead and turned. “Derivatives are easy. Rate of change, right? Like how fast my crush changes her DP.”

“Shut up, Rahul,” said Sneha-from-12-B, who’d wandered in to borrow a pen. “Some of us actually want to get into engineering.”

“Oho, listen to Miss IIT,” Vikram teased. “Arjun, you’re aiming for IIT too, na? Or are you still dreaming of that architecture thing?”

Arjun shrugged. “Both. Maths is the gatekeeper.”

The classroom filled. Thirty-five students, thirty-five different futures colliding in one humid room. Someone passed around a phone—memes about board exams. Someone else whispered about the canteen Maggi being extra spicy today. Normal morning chaos.

Then the door opened—not with Ramakrishna sir’s familiar shuffle, but with the sharp click of formal shoes. Principal Father Mathias entered, his white cassock pristine, his face carved from granite. The room froze mid-laugh.

“Good morning, children,” he said, voice low, the kind that didn’t need volume to command silence.

Thirty-five spines straightened. Arjun’s stomach dropped. Did someone rat out the rooftop smoking? The fake hall tickets?

Father Mathias surveyed them like a general inspecting troops. “I have an announcement.”

Vikram’s gum stopped moving. Rahul’s meme phone vanished into his pocket.

“Mr. Ramakrishna has taken emergency leave. Family matter. Effective today, your new mathematics teacher is Ms. Meera Krishnan. She comes highly recommended from St. Joseph’s PU College. Treat her with respect.”

A collective exhale. Not punishment. Just change.

The principal stepped aside. And she walked in.

Ms. Meera Krishnan.

Time did something strange—it didn’t stop, but it stretched, like taffy pulled between two indifferent gods. Thirty-five pairs of eyes tracked her path from door to teacher’s table. Arjun’s breath snagged somewhere between inhale and exhale.
She wore a purple silk saree, the colour of overripe jamun, dbangd with the effortless precision of someone who had done it a thousand times yet made it look like art. The border was a thin line of gold that caught the fluorescent light and threw it back in soft shards. Her blouse was a shade darker, three-quarter sleeves, modest neckline—nothing flashy. And yet.

The saree sat low on her hips, the way sarees are meant to, revealing a handspan of midriff. Not an inch more. But that inch was a revelation. Her waist curved inward like the inside of a conch shell, smooth, warm-toned, the skin there glowing with the faint sheen of talc and morning. A tiny fold of saree tucked just above the navel created a shadow that dipped and rose with her breath—a gentle, living parenthesis. When she turned to place her bag on the table, the pleats shifted, and the fabric hugged the swell of her hips, outlining the generous, symmetrical arc of her buttocks. Not vulgar. Not even deliberate. Just the honest truth of a body that had been poured into silk and told to teach calculus.

Her face—Arjun catalogued it the way a starving man catalogues a feast. Oval, framed by hair pulled into a low bun, a few strands escaping to frame her cheekbones. Eyes the colour of wet earth after first rain. A small bindi, maroon, perfectly centred. Lips that didn’t need colour but had it anyway. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, twenty-seven. Old enough to command, young enough to unsettle.

“Good morning, class,” she said. Her voice was clear, lightly accented with the softness of coastal Karnataka, but no slang, no regional flourish—just educated, urban English. “I’m Ms. Meera. We’ll be doing calculus this year. Let’s begin gently.”
She wrote on the board

Arjun didn’t hear the explanation. He was busy tracing the way her fingers held the chalk—long, nails trimmed, a thin gold ring on the right hand. The way her pallu slipped a fraction when she reached high, revealing the same waist curve, now from the side, a perfect hyperbolic tangent. The way the saree swayed when she walked between the benches to hand out graph sheets, the pleats whispering against each other like secrets.

Vikram nudged him. “Oi. You’re staring.”

Arjun blinked. “What?”

“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. A purple truck.”

“Shut up.”

Ms. Meera was speaking. “…the derivative is simply the slope of the tangent at any point. Think of it as how fast something is changing. Like speed. Like heartbeat.”
Arjun’s heartbeat obeyed. It accelerated from 72 to 120 in the span of one sentence.
She drew a parabola. “y = x². At x = 1, the slope is…?”

Hands shot up. Rahul’s, Sneha’s. Arjun’s hand stayed down. He was calculating something else—the angle at which light hit the gold border and fractured into her collarbone. The radius of the arc her hip described when she turned. The velocity with which his sanity was leaving the building.

“Correct, Sneha. dy/dx = 2x. So at x = 1, slope is 2.”

She smiled. Not the wide, teacherly beam of Ramakrishna sir, but a small, private curve of lips, as if the equation had amused her. Arjun felt it in his knees.

The class progressed. Limits. Instantaneous rate of change. She moved like a metronome—three steps to the board, write, turn, explain, four steps to the first bench, check a notebook, back. Each motion economical, graceful. The saree never betrayed her; it simply followed, a loyal shadow.

Arjun’s notebook remained blank except for a single line he’d written without realising:
She is the curve I want to find the area under.
He underlined it three times.

Near the end, she assigned homework. “Page 47, exercises 1 to 10. We’ll discuss tomorrow. Any questions?”

Silence. Thirty-five teenagers suddenly fascinated by their shoes.

“Good.” She gathered her things. The bag was brown leather, worn at the corners. She slung it over one shoulder, and the pallu shifted again—just enough to reveal that waist curve one last time, the shadow deepening as she breathed. Then she walked to the door.

Arjun watched the saree cling to the twin swells of her backside as she moved, the fabric stretching, releasing, stretching again—like a tide that had learned geometry. The pleats fanned slightly with each step, then settled. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

The spell broke.

Vikram whistled low. “Bro. Ramakrishna sir just got upgraded.”

Rahul turned, eyes wide. “Did you see that waist? Like… like someone drew it with a French curve.”

Sneha rolled her eyes. “Pigs. She’s a teacher.”

Arjun said nothing. He was still staring at the empty doorway, replaying the way the purple silk had caught the light, the way her hips had described a perfect sine wave as she left.

The bell rang for the next period. Students surged toward the door, voices rising in a tide of gossip and hormones. Arjun stayed seated, notebook open to the blank page and the single underlined sentence.

Outside, in the corridor, Ms. Meera Krishnan paused to adjust her pallu, unaware that thirty-five futures had just tilted on their axes. She took a deep breath, smoothed the saree over her hip, and walked toward the staff room.

Inside 12-A, Arjun closed his notebook. The derivatives could wait.
He had a new function to study.
And the class had only just begun.