Misc. Erotica Meera - The Math Teacher

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Episode 7 – L’Hôpital’s Rule

Monday morning cracked open like a new page in Arjun’s private calculus of obsession.

He woke before the alarm, the ceiling fan still spinning lazily above him, the sheet twisted around his legs like a function that had lost its domain. The first thing in his mind was not the sun, not breakfast, not even the IIT dream his mother kept alive with every idli. It was Meera.

More precisely: the memory of her armpits—those two glowing, hairless hollows he had seen yesterday in the market, the faint bead of sweat tracing a parabolic path, the way the skin had stretched and relaxed when she lifted her arms. And beneath that, yesterday’s five-second navel, the orange georgette parting like a curtain at the climax of a play.

He showered quickly, the cold water doing nothing to calm the morning erection that throbbed like a step function the moment he remembered the pinch. While brushing his teeth he stared at his reflection and made silent vows:

Today I get closer.
Today I make her see me.
Today I become more than the quiet boy in the third row.

On the auto ride to college he rehearsed scenarios like a mad mathematician:
Ask a brilliant doubt that makes her eyes light up.
Crack a small joke (not too filmi, not too nerdy).
Volunteer for everything.
Anything that would shrink the distance from thirty feet of classroom to three feet of breath-shared air.

He reached college twenty-five minutes early, sprinted to the notice board near the assembly ground, and there it was—freshly pinned, still smelling of glue:

ST. MARY’S MATHEMATICS OLYMPIAD 2025
Calling all classes 8–12
Registration open till today
Co-ordinator: Ms. Meera Krishnan

His eyes lit up like limit lights on a graphing calculator finally converging.
This was it.

Not just extra classes. Not just doubts.
This was daily practice, small groups, her attention split thirty ways instead of thirty-five.

This was sanctioned proximity.
He practically ran to 12-A, claimed the first bench again, heart hammering louder than the morning assembly drum.

The bell rang.
She walked in.
Back to saree—today a deep bottle-green cotton with a thin gold border that caught the tube light and scattered it like reflected integrals. The blouse was matching green, short-sleeved, modest, but Arjun now knew what lay beneath: arms that could slay in sleeveless lavender, a waist that curved like a French curve, armpits that glowed like hidden constants. She could slay both worlds—saree goddess and jeans mortal—and the realisation made his chest ache with something sharper than lust.

“Good morning, class,” she began, voice soft but carrying. “Before we start improper integrals, a quick announcement.”

She turned to the board, wrote in her beautiful looping hand:
Math Olympiad – Last day for names

“I’ll be co-ordinating this year. It’s a wonderful chance to push yourselves beyond the syllabus. The college will shortlist thirty of you after next week’s screening test. Daily workshops start today, 4 to 5:30 p.m., seminar hall. Anyone interested?”

Hands shot up—Sneha’s, Rahul’s (surprisingly), a few others.
Arjun’s hand was the first and the highest, arm straight as a y-axis, trembling with urgency.

Meera’s eyes found his, a flicker of something—recognition? amusement?—and she smiled the smallest smile.
“Of course, Arjun. I expected you.”

She moved between the benches with a sheet, collecting names and signatures. When she reached him, she bent slightly to take his notebook. The green pallu shifted just enough for a whisper of jasmine to drift down—fresh, intoxicating, mixed with the warmth of her skin. Yesterday’s sleeveless memory collided with today’s scent and Arjun felt his head swim. He inhaled greedily, discreetly, as she hovered inches away. The perfume was new, stronger than usual, laced with something green and alive. With the armpits still burning in his retina, the fragrance became a drug—he could almost taste the hollow beneath her sleeve, imagine burying his face there, breathing her in until his lungs gave out.

“Sign here, please.” Her voice was low, meant only for him.

He scrawled his name, hand shaking, and when she took the pen back her fingers brushed his—accidental, electric. She moved on, but the scent lingered like a differential trailing its function.

For the rest of the period, every time she raised her arm to write high on the board, the green sleeve rode up a fraction. No skin showed, but Arjun stared anyway, memory superimposing yesterday’s naked hollow onto today’s covered one. Each lift of her arm became torture and prayer. He was hard beneath the desk, shifting uncomfortably, the itch unbearable: to press his face into that hidden space, to inhale her whole, to let the jasmine and warm skin drown him. When she absent-mindedly tucked a strand behind her ear, the sleeve lifted again—higher this time—and he nearly groaned aloud.

The bell rang far too soon. As students surged out, Meera raised her voice over the noise:
“Workshop participants—seminar hall, last period today. Don’t be late. We begin properly.”

Arjun floated through the rest of the day. Physics, chemistry, English—meaningless noise. His mind was already in the seminar hall, rehearsing lines, imagining her leaning over his shoulder to check a solution, her breath on his ear, her scent in his lungs.

When the final bell rang he was the first to sprint, bag banging against his hip, corridors blurring. The seminar hall was already filling—rows of blue plastic chairs, maybe a hundred and twenty students from classes 8 to 12, buzzing with nervous energy. Arjun took a seat in the second row, dead centre, pulse racing.

At 4:05 p.m. she walked in—green saree luminous under the tube lights—flanked by Mr. Shetty and Mrs. Nair from the math department. She looked tiny between them, yet commanded the room the moment she stepped to the podium.

A ten-minute introduction followed: stages of the Olympiad, key dates, the glory of representing the college at regionals, nationals. Then the hammer:

“Only thirty of you will be selected after next Monday’s screening test. From tomorrow we meet daily, 4 to 5:30. Work hard, ask doubts, surprise me.”

She distributed thick yellow booklets—past INMO problems, RMO specials—and told them to start.
“Raise your hand if you get stuck. I’ll come around.”

The hall dissolved into rustling pages and scratching pens. Arjun attacked the first ten problems like a man possessed, solving, circling three deliberately tricky ones. When Meera began walking the aisles, he raised his hand high, heart in his throat.

She reached him within minutes, pulled a chair, sat beside him—close enough that her knee almost brushed his under the desk. Jasmine flooded the small space between them.
“Show me,” she said softly.

He slid the booklet across, leaning in just enough to keep her scent in his lungs. One by one he explained his approaches—clever substitutions, symmetry tricks, a sneaky use of complex numbers on a geometry problem. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in appreciation.

“This is… really good, Arjun,” she murmured, voice low so others wouldn’t hear. “I’m impressed. Keep this up and you’re definitely in the thirty. All the very best.”
She placed a hand briefly on his wrist—warm, fleeting—then moved on.

He sat frozen, blood roaring in his ears. She was impressed. She had touched him. The day had peaked; nothing could ruin it.

Or so he thought.

Half an hour later a girl from 11-B in the front row called her over. Meera walked up, bent slightly over the girl’s desk to see the problem, green pallu falling forward. From Arjun’s angle—second row, slightly behind—it was perfection: the curve of her waist suddenly visible, the saree clinging to the dip above her hip, the line of her spine a delicate S under cotton. He forgot to breathe.

She bent further, writing in the girl’s notebook, explaining softly. The pleats at her waist—tucked low as always—began to loosen under the strain, inching downward millimetre by millimetre like a slow limit approaching revelation. Arjun’s eyes locked on the descending tuck, pulse hammering. One more inch, half an inch, and the navel would appear again—that sacred zero he had tasted only in wind and fantasy.

He leaned forward involuntarily, chair creaking, every nerve screaming for the reveal.
And then the door at the back opened.

Priya breezed in, red kurti bright as a warning signal, short hair tousled from the corridor wind. She spotted Meera bent over the desk and grinned like a devil who had found her favourite toy. Without breaking stride she walked straight to Meera, reached out, and—just before pinching—let her index finger trail once, slowly, deliberately, along the exposed curve of Meera’s waist, feeling the softness, the warmth, the perfect dip like a connoisseur testing silk.
Then she pinched—hard enough to startle, not hard enough to truly hurt.

Meera let out a soft, startled “Ah… ouch!”—half laugh, half moan—body jerking upright, pleats snapping back into place an instant before the navel could appear. She turned, cheeks flushed, swatting Priya’s hand away. “Stop it, you mad woman!” she whispered fiercely, but her eyes danced with embarrassed laughter bringing her saree plates back to normal

Priya leaned in, whispered something that only Meera could hear
"Can't let these kids have a free show of your beauty ah !!!"
That made Meera’s blush deepen to scarlet—and sauntered out, throwing a wink over her shoulder.

Arjun saw everything.
The pinch.
The tiny, involuntary moan that escaped Meera’s lips like a musical note pitched exactly at his frequency.
His cock hardened instantly, painfully, trapped beneath the desk, throbbing against rough khaki. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only replay the scene in slow motion: Priya’s finger tracing the waist he worshipped, claiming territory he hadn’t yet touched, drawing that exquisite sound from Meera’s throat.

He stayed till 5:30, but the rest of the workshop was a blur. When the hall finally emptied he walked home in a trance, the pinch-moan loop running endlessly. Dinner was silent; Lakshmi’s questions bounced off him like light off a mirror. As soon as the house slept he locked his door, stripped, and came within thirty seconds—hand moving in frantic recreation of Priya’s trail-then-pinch, imagining his own fingers, his own lips on that waist, drawing that same soft “Ah… ouch” from Meera. The release was violent, almost painful, splattering across his stomach in thick pulses.
But it wasn’t enough.

He did it again twenty minutes later, slower this time, replaying the moan in surround sound, picturing Meera’s flushed face, the way her body had jerked toward Priya’s hand instead of away. Priya’s possessive little caress, the pinch, the moan that sounded almost sexual

Still not enough.
Lying in the dark, sweat cooling, fan clicking overhead, he replayed the scene for the hundredth time (slower now, frame by frame). And then it hit him.

Just before the pinch, Priya hadn’t simply grabbed. She had traced. Her fingertip had glided along the curve of Meera’s waist, slow, deliberate, like a lover confirming softness, admiring the dip, the flare, the warmth of skin, like an artist outlining a masterpiece before signing it. A lover’s gesture disguised as play. Only then had she pinched, playful but possessive.

Arjun’s eyes snapped open in the dark.
Priya wasn’t just teasing a colleague.
Priya was admiring Meera.
Priya wanted Meera.
Maybe Priya saw the same beauty he did.
Maybe Priya wanted the same things he wanted.
Maybe the pinch wasn’t casual at all.

The realisation landed like a new boundary condition, rewriting the entire equation. His obsession suddenly had a rival variable, one who dared to touch what he could only worship from afar.
With that dizzying, jealous, thrilling thought swirling in his head, the soft “Ah… ouch” echoing like a complex residue he would chase for the rest of his life.

Arjun finally drifted into uneasy sleep, the green saree and red kurti tangled in his dreams like two asymptotes that would never meet yet forever chased the same unreachable curve.