Misc. Erotica Meera - The Math Teacher

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Episode 8 – Partial Fractions (Priya’s Side)

The staff-room fan spun like a tired metronome, pushing the same warm air around in circles.
Priya Menon sat sideways on her chair, one leg tucked beneath her, marking 9th-standard essays with a red pen that bled more than it corrected. Her short hair stuck to her neck in the humidity; the red cotton kurti clung to her back in damp patches.
Across the room, Meera Krishnan was bent over a stack of Olympiad answer sheets, peach saree glowing under the tube light like a soft gradient, the pallu slipping just enough to reveal the delicate line where blouse met skin.

Priya’s pen slowed.

She had noticed Meera the very first day (who hadn’t?), but noticing and watching were different things.
The first was the way every boy in 12-A suddenly discovered calculus.
The second was quieter, private, and had nothing to do with teenage hormones.

It had started with small, harmless things.

The way Meera’s fingers held chalk (long, careful, almost reverent).
The way she laughed at Priya’s terrible Shakespeare puns, head thrown back, throat exposed for a fraction of a second, the sound bright and unguarded.
The way her voice softened when she said “good question” to a student, like she genuinely meant it, like every mind in the room mattered.

Then came the pinch in the seminar hall.

Priya hadn’t planned it. She had walked in to drop off a notice, seen Meera bent over that 11th-grade girl’s desk, the green saree stretched tight across her waist, the pleats loosening just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above the petticoat.
Something in Priya’s chest had twisted (not lust exactly, though there was heat; more like recognition).

That curve was unfair. Not vulgar. Just… perfectly drawn. A line someone had taken centuries to get right.

So she had done what she always did when words failed: teased.
Walked up, let her fingertip graze the exposed waist first (one slow, deliberate second, feeling the warmth, the impossible softness, the faint tremor under her touch), then pinched, quick and playful, to cover the intimacy of that first stroke.

Meera’s startled “Ah… ouch!” had gone straight between Priya’s legs.

She had left laughing, tossing a filthy whisper over her shoulder (“Careful, darling, or the whole college will know how ticklish you are right here”), but the laugh had been shaky.
Because the truth was messier.

Priya wanted.

Not just to tease.
She wanted to watch Meera come undone slowly (not in a classroom, not in a hurry), wanted to trace every inch of that waist with her mouth, wanted to feel the exact moment Meera realised the pinch wasn’t a joke anymore.
She wanted the quiet after, when Meera’s breath would even out against her shoulder and the jasmine in her hair would mix with Priya’s own coconut oil.

She had never said it aloud.
She might never.

Because Meera was shy, proper, the kind of woman who blushed at innuendo and still said “please” to the canteen boy.
Because Priya was loud, sarcastic, the “fun” teacher who made dick jokes in the staff room and pretended she didn’t care who heard.
Because the gap between them felt like the difference between a quadratic and a transcendental (beautiful, but impossible to reconcile without breaking something).

So Priya settled for partial fractions.

A graze here.
A pinch there.
A whispered “You’re killing me in that colour” when no one was listening.
Each one a term in an infinite series that added up to something she could almost, almost touch.

Today, watching Meera mark papers, Priya’s pen had stopped moving entirely.
The peach saree had slipped again while Meera reached for a stapler; the side of her waist curved like the inside of a conch shell, the skin there lighter where the sun never reached.
Priya’s mouth went dry.

She imagined walking over, pressing her lips to that exact spot, feeling Meera’s sharp inhale, the way her body would arch first in surprise, then in surrender.
She imagined Meera’s hand coming up (not to push her away, but to thread fingers through Priya’s short hair and hold her there).

The fantasy lasted three seconds.
Then Mrs. Nair walked in asking for correction fluid, and the moment shattered.

Priya exhaled, slow and shaky, and went back to her essays.
She wrote “Excellent imagery!” on a paper that deserved a C at best.

Some hungers, she thought, you learn to live with in pieces.
You decompose them, reduce them to manageable fractions, and hope one day the sum surprises you.

For now, the graze-and-pinch would have to be enough.

But god, she wanted the whole.