18-11-2025, 02:07 AM
Episode 6 – Partial Fractions
Arjun stumbled through the gate long after the streetlights had flickered on, the five-second wind-gift of Meera’s navel still looping behind his eyes like a high-definition integral.
That perfect oval dip, the way the orange saree had framed it for one heartbeat, then snatched it away, had branded itself onto his retinas. He barely heard Lakshmi’s “Beta, food is cold, heat it na” as he drifted to his room, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed still in his uniform.
The fan spun uselessly above him.
He freed himself from his trousers with trembling fingers and closed his eyes.
There it was again: the navel, round and deep, a warm, breathing zero.
He pictured himself kneeling before her, her saree lifted just enough, his tongue tracing the rim, dipping into the soft hollow, tasting talc and faint salt.
Then the fantasy darkened, thickened: his cock, rigid and leaking, resting against that smooth midriff, the tip nudging the edge of her navel before he came, hot, thick ropes spilling directly into the dip, filling it, pooling, overflowing in slow white rivulets down the gentle slope of her belly.
The image alone was enough.
He groaned, hips jerking, and released hard, the first climax ripping through him like a discontinuity.
But the picture of his cum inside Meera’s navel, glistening there like liquid proof of ownership, refused to fade.
His hand moved again, almost against his will, and within a minute he was coming a second time, weaker but sharper, the fantasy now complete with her looking down at the mess he had made of her sacred zero and smiling.
He fell asleep sticky and half-dressed, the ceiling fan chopping the darkness into slow, guilty pieces.
Sunday morning arrived grey and lazy.
No college. No orange saree. No Meera.
The disappointment sat on his chest like a failed limit.
He stayed in bed till ten, scrolling through Instagram accounts of random girls just to feel something, anything, that wasn’t her.
Lakshmi banged on the door at 10:37.
"Arjun! Vegetable market, now! Brinjal, ladies’ finger, tomatoes, coriander, everything finished. Go to Russell Market, take auto, come back fast."
He groaned into his pillow.
Market? On a Sunday? When the only curve he wanted to see belonged to a woman who was probably sipping filter coffee in her apartment right now?
But Lakshmi was relentless.
Twenty minutes later he was trudging through the crowded lanes of Russell Market, plastic bags swinging, the stink of fish and overripe jackfruit thick in the November heat.
He haggled half-heartedly for tomatoes, counted change with dead eyes, and was turning to leave when—
There she was.
Ten metres away, at the leafy-greens stall, basket in hand.
Meera.
In the real world. Outside college. On a Sunday.
His heart stopped, restarted, then sprinted.
She wore a simple white sleeveless top—thin cotton, nothing fancy—and dark blue jeans that clung to her legs like they had been tailored by a jealous god.
No saree. No pallu. No blouse sleeves hiding anything.
First time he was seeing her in Western clothes, and God, she was devastating.
The sleeveless top suited her so perfectly it should have been illegal: it followed the soft swell of her breasts without vulgarity, dipped modestly at the neckline, and left her arms completely bare.
Those arms—smooth, even-toned, the colour of fresh creamy milk—had been hidden behind blouse sleeves all these days, and now they moved with casual grace as she lifted a bunch of palak to inspect the leaves.
Even arms, he thought dimly, even her arms looked erotic.
She made biceps and triceps look like poetry.
He stood frozen between the onion carts, bags dangling, afraid to breathe.
Should he go? Say hello? Pretend he hadn’t seen her?
While he dithered, she paid the vendor and moved to the next stall—brinjal, purple and gleaming.
As she walked away from him, the view from behind nearly killed him on the spot.
The jeans hugged the curve of her ass with merciless precision: two perfect, firm hemispheres separated by a single seam that disappeared between them like the negative space in a Reuleaux triangle.
The denim stretched and released with each step, outlining the exact geometry he had worshipped in secret for weeks.
He wanted to press himself against that curve right there in the middle of Russell Market, feel the heat through the fabric, let his palms map the radius and circumference until the numbers dissolved into pure sensation.
Courage, thin and trembling, finally surged.
He dumped his bags at a random shop (“Uncle, keep for two minutes”), wiped sweaty palms on his T-shirt, and walked toward her.
"Ma’am?"
Meera turned, startled, then broke into a surprised smile.
"Arjun! What a coincidence! Shopping for your mom?"
"Y-yes, ma’am. Vegetables ran out."
His voice cracked like a twelve-year-old’s. Brilliant.
She laughed softly. "Same here. I live close by—Shivajinagar, just behind the mosque. Didn’t know you stayed in this area too."
" Frazer Town," he managed. "Five minutes from here."
"Really? So near!"
She shifted her basket to the other hand, and the movement made the sleeveless top ride just a fraction, exposing a thin strip of midriff.
He nearly whimpered.
They chatted—awkward at first, then easier.
She asked about his Sunday study plan (lie: whole day revision), he asked if she cooked (yes, simple stuff, she missed her amma’s fish curry).
Normal words, but every second felt like a derivative exploding.
Then she reached up to adjust a slipping hair clip.
Both arms rose, graceful and unhurried, lifting above her head.
And there they were.
Her armpits.
Smooth, fair, glowing crescents of skin, completely hairless, the delicate hollows catching the morning light like twin parabolas of perfection.
The sleeveless edges framed them perfectly—no stubble, no shadow, just flawless concave curves moving in tandem with her hands, a faint sheen of perspiration making them glisten like polished marble under museum spotlights.
The left one dipped deeper when she tilted, the right one flexed slightly as she pinned the clip, the skin stretching and folding in microscopic waves.
Arjun’s mouth flooded with saliva so fast he had to swallow audibly.
His brain short-circuited: volume of that hollow, surface area, the exact curvature of the axilla as a function of arm angle—he wanted to lick them, trace the salty crease with his tongue, bury his face there until the world narrowed to the scent of her skin and the soft tickle of invisible down.
He stood frozen, eyes wide, bags forgotten somewhere in the onion pile.
Meera lowered her arms, clapped twice in front of his face.
"Arjun? Arjun! Back to Earth to Arjun!"
He jolted. "S-sorry, ma’am! I… suddenly remembered… mom asked for curry leaves also."
She laughed, a little puzzled but kind. "Okay, go get them then. See you tomorrow—don’t forget the chain-rule homework!"
She waved, turned, paid for her brinjals, and hailed an auto.
As the auto pulled away, she glanced back once—caught him staring again, just for a second—and gave a small, curious smile before disappearing into traffic.
Arjun retrieved his abandoned bags in a daze, paid triple for tomatoes because he couldn’t count, and somehow made it home.
The second the bedroom door clicked shut, he was on his knees by the bed, trousers around his ankles, hand moving in frantic rhythm.
He pictured those armpits again—smooth, warm, slightly damp—imagined pressing his tongue into the left hollow while she laughed above him, the faint musk of a Sunday morning mixing with jasmine shampoo.
He came harder than he ever had, hips bucking, a broken groan tearing from his throat as the fantasy dissolved into white-hot release.
Afterward he lay on the floor, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling fan.
Tomorrow was Monday.
Tomorrow she would be back in a saree, sleeves covering those arms again.
But now he knew what lay beneath.he lay staring at the blades' spin, partial sums adding to wholeness: breast, navel, now armpits—fractions of Meera, irreducible, pulling him toward the full integral.
And knowing was a new kind of torment—one that promised to last the entire week.
Arjun stumbled through the gate long after the streetlights had flickered on, the five-second wind-gift of Meera’s navel still looping behind his eyes like a high-definition integral.
That perfect oval dip, the way the orange saree had framed it for one heartbeat, then snatched it away, had branded itself onto his retinas. He barely heard Lakshmi’s “Beta, food is cold, heat it na” as he drifted to his room, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed still in his uniform.
The fan spun uselessly above him.
He freed himself from his trousers with trembling fingers and closed his eyes.
There it was again: the navel, round and deep, a warm, breathing zero.
He pictured himself kneeling before her, her saree lifted just enough, his tongue tracing the rim, dipping into the soft hollow, tasting talc and faint salt.
Then the fantasy darkened, thickened: his cock, rigid and leaking, resting against that smooth midriff, the tip nudging the edge of her navel before he came, hot, thick ropes spilling directly into the dip, filling it, pooling, overflowing in slow white rivulets down the gentle slope of her belly.
The image alone was enough.
He groaned, hips jerking, and released hard, the first climax ripping through him like a discontinuity.
But the picture of his cum inside Meera’s navel, glistening there like liquid proof of ownership, refused to fade.
His hand moved again, almost against his will, and within a minute he was coming a second time, weaker but sharper, the fantasy now complete with her looking down at the mess he had made of her sacred zero and smiling.
He fell asleep sticky and half-dressed, the ceiling fan chopping the darkness into slow, guilty pieces.
Sunday morning arrived grey and lazy.
No college. No orange saree. No Meera.
The disappointment sat on his chest like a failed limit.
He stayed in bed till ten, scrolling through Instagram accounts of random girls just to feel something, anything, that wasn’t her.
Lakshmi banged on the door at 10:37.
"Arjun! Vegetable market, now! Brinjal, ladies’ finger, tomatoes, coriander, everything finished. Go to Russell Market, take auto, come back fast."
He groaned into his pillow.
Market? On a Sunday? When the only curve he wanted to see belonged to a woman who was probably sipping filter coffee in her apartment right now?
But Lakshmi was relentless.
Twenty minutes later he was trudging through the crowded lanes of Russell Market, plastic bags swinging, the stink of fish and overripe jackfruit thick in the November heat.
He haggled half-heartedly for tomatoes, counted change with dead eyes, and was turning to leave when—
There she was.
Ten metres away, at the leafy-greens stall, basket in hand.
Meera.
In the real world. Outside college. On a Sunday.
His heart stopped, restarted, then sprinted.
She wore a simple white sleeveless top—thin cotton, nothing fancy—and dark blue jeans that clung to her legs like they had been tailored by a jealous god.
No saree. No pallu. No blouse sleeves hiding anything.
First time he was seeing her in Western clothes, and God, she was devastating.
The sleeveless top suited her so perfectly it should have been illegal: it followed the soft swell of her breasts without vulgarity, dipped modestly at the neckline, and left her arms completely bare.
Those arms—smooth, even-toned, the colour of fresh creamy milk—had been hidden behind blouse sleeves all these days, and now they moved with casual grace as she lifted a bunch of palak to inspect the leaves.
Even arms, he thought dimly, even her arms looked erotic.
She made biceps and triceps look like poetry.
He stood frozen between the onion carts, bags dangling, afraid to breathe.
Should he go? Say hello? Pretend he hadn’t seen her?
While he dithered, she paid the vendor and moved to the next stall—brinjal, purple and gleaming.
As she walked away from him, the view from behind nearly killed him on the spot.
The jeans hugged the curve of her ass with merciless precision: two perfect, firm hemispheres separated by a single seam that disappeared between them like the negative space in a Reuleaux triangle.
The denim stretched and released with each step, outlining the exact geometry he had worshipped in secret for weeks.
He wanted to press himself against that curve right there in the middle of Russell Market, feel the heat through the fabric, let his palms map the radius and circumference until the numbers dissolved into pure sensation.
Courage, thin and trembling, finally surged.
He dumped his bags at a random shop (“Uncle, keep for two minutes”), wiped sweaty palms on his T-shirt, and walked toward her.
"Ma’am?"
Meera turned, startled, then broke into a surprised smile.
"Arjun! What a coincidence! Shopping for your mom?"
"Y-yes, ma’am. Vegetables ran out."
His voice cracked like a twelve-year-old’s. Brilliant.
She laughed softly. "Same here. I live close by—Shivajinagar, just behind the mosque. Didn’t know you stayed in this area too."
" Frazer Town," he managed. "Five minutes from here."
"Really? So near!"
She shifted her basket to the other hand, and the movement made the sleeveless top ride just a fraction, exposing a thin strip of midriff.
He nearly whimpered.
They chatted—awkward at first, then easier.
She asked about his Sunday study plan (lie: whole day revision), he asked if she cooked (yes, simple stuff, she missed her amma’s fish curry).
Normal words, but every second felt like a derivative exploding.
Then she reached up to adjust a slipping hair clip.
Both arms rose, graceful and unhurried, lifting above her head.
And there they were.
Her armpits.
Smooth, fair, glowing crescents of skin, completely hairless, the delicate hollows catching the morning light like twin parabolas of perfection.
The sleeveless edges framed them perfectly—no stubble, no shadow, just flawless concave curves moving in tandem with her hands, a faint sheen of perspiration making them glisten like polished marble under museum spotlights.
The left one dipped deeper when she tilted, the right one flexed slightly as she pinned the clip, the skin stretching and folding in microscopic waves.
Arjun’s mouth flooded with saliva so fast he had to swallow audibly.
His brain short-circuited: volume of that hollow, surface area, the exact curvature of the axilla as a function of arm angle—he wanted to lick them, trace the salty crease with his tongue, bury his face there until the world narrowed to the scent of her skin and the soft tickle of invisible down.
He stood frozen, eyes wide, bags forgotten somewhere in the onion pile.
Meera lowered her arms, clapped twice in front of his face.
"Arjun? Arjun! Back to Earth to Arjun!"
He jolted. "S-sorry, ma’am! I… suddenly remembered… mom asked for curry leaves also."
She laughed, a little puzzled but kind. "Okay, go get them then. See you tomorrow—don’t forget the chain-rule homework!"
She waved, turned, paid for her brinjals, and hailed an auto.
As the auto pulled away, she glanced back once—caught him staring again, just for a second—and gave a small, curious smile before disappearing into traffic.
Arjun retrieved his abandoned bags in a daze, paid triple for tomatoes because he couldn’t count, and somehow made it home.
The second the bedroom door clicked shut, he was on his knees by the bed, trousers around his ankles, hand moving in frantic rhythm.
He pictured those armpits again—smooth, warm, slightly damp—imagined pressing his tongue into the left hollow while she laughed above him, the faint musk of a Sunday morning mixing with jasmine shampoo.
He came harder than he ever had, hips bucking, a broken groan tearing from his throat as the fantasy dissolved into white-hot release.
Afterward he lay on the floor, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling fan.
Tomorrow was Monday.
Tomorrow she would be back in a saree, sleeves covering those arms again.
But now he knew what lay beneath.he lay staring at the blades' spin, partial sums adding to wholeness: breast, navel, now armpits—fractions of Meera, irreducible, pulling him toward the full integral.
And knowing was a new kind of torment—one that promised to last the entire week.
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