02-12-2025, 11:47 PM
Interlude: The Night After Day 5
Friday, 22 May 2020 – 11:17 p.m.
The flat was dark except for the faint orange glow of the streetlight leaking through the living-room curtains.
Lakshmi had been asleep for over an hour, her soft snores drifting down the corridor.
Radha lay on her back in the master bedroom, eyes wide open, staring at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan.
The sheets were kicked to the foot of the bed; the night was too hot, and her skin still felt too alive to be covered.
Between her thighs she was swollen and slick.
Every time she shifted her legs she felt the ghost of where his gaze had been (where her own panty had slid down in front of him only hours earlier).
She pressed her thighs together and let out a shaky breath.
Across the narrow service balcony that connected the two bedrooms, Nikhil lay on his thin cotton mattress, staring at the same ceiling through the open window.
His heart had not slowed down once since 4:26 p.m.
He kept replaying the exact second in slow motion:
Radha Mehta (the woman who once made him stand on the bench for forty minutes because his handwriting was “like a drunk spider”)
standing in the living room in nothing but that sleeveless cream blouse and the maroon saree,
reaching for the waistband of the thin white panty he had watched her wear for five days,
and sliding it down her legs in front of him.
He had expected the game to stop at blouses and pallus.
He had told himself this was just lockdown madness, something to pass the time, something that would never, could never go further than a little dangerous teasing.
And then she had looked him in the eye, hooked her thumbs in, and pulled the last piece down.
He remembered the exact sound the elastic made when it snapped against her thigh.
He remembered the way the cotton clung for a second to the wetness between her legs before it fell.
He remembered the small, dark patch in the centre of the fabric when she folded it and placed it on the pile like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His hand moved unconsciously to his cock under the sheet (hard again, aching again).
He had not dared to believe, even in his most secret, shameful midnight fantasies, that Radha Ma’am would ever be naked in front of him.
Let alone naked from the waist down, sitting back on that chair with her legs slightly apart, letting him look.
He had stared so long and so hard that he still had the image burned behind his eyelids:
the neat triangle of dark hair, the swollen lips already glistening, the way her thighs trembled just a little when she realised how completely he was seeing her.
And the worst part (the best part) was that she had not looked ashamed.
She had looked relieved.
Like someone who had carried a terrible, heavy secret for years and finally set it down.
Nikhil rolled onto his side, pressed his face into the pillow to muffle the groan that wanted to escape.
He had grown up believing Radha Ma’am was made of ice and steel.
He had wet himself in Class 6 when she had raised her voice.
He had cried silently in the toilet after she had struck his knuckles raw.
And today that same woman had taken off her panty in front of him and sat back down with her legs open.
He came again without touching himself, just from the memory, biting the pillow to stay quiet.
In the master bedroom, Radha heard the faint, stifled sound through the open window and smiled into the dark.
She slipped one hand between her legs, circled her clit once, slowly, and whispered to the empty room:
“Tomorrow, baby.
Tomorrow you’ll do more than look.”
She came in less than thirty seconds, thighs clamping around her own fingers, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.
Neither of them slept that night.
They lay ten metres apart, separated by a thin balcony wall, both replaying the same impossible moment over and over:
The exact second the strictest teacher in St. Xavier’s became naked and open and waiting for the boy she had once terrorised.
And the lockdown night stretched on, hot and endless, filled with the sound of two hearts that had finally admitted what they had become.
Radha’s fingers were still between her thighs, slick and trembling, when the second, colder thought slid in like ice water.
What have I done?
Tomorrow is Saturday. Lakshmi will be home all day.
Sunday is two full days away.
Two days of sitting across from him at the dining table, pretending to check sums while remembering how it felt to slide my panty down in front of him.
Two days of watching his eyes flick to me and away, over and over, knowing he has seen me naked below… knowing he has seen me wet.
There is no undoing this.
She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her face into the pillow, and let the truth settle.
She had crossed the line the moment she let the cotton drop.
There was no “little bit further and then stop”.
The line was gone.
She pictured Sunday again, but slower this time, more honest.
She imagined walking in wearing only the maroon saree, nothing beneath.
Imagined letting it fall.
Imagined Nikhil finally reaching out.
But then the other picture came (unwanted, but persistent):
Nikhil freezing.
Nikhil staring, terrified, hands clenched at his sides, too afraid of the woman who once made him cry to even touch her breast.
She realised she didn’t know which version scared her more.
If he touched her, everything changed forever.
If he didn’t… she would have bared herself to a boy who was still too frightened to take what she offered.
Both possibilities made her stomach knot and her cunt clench at the same time.
She decided, there in the dark, that she would not lead on Sunday.
She would let him decide the pace.
She would stand naked and wait.
She wanted to see what the boy would do when he finally understood that the woman who had ruled him for fourteen years was now his to command.
She was almost certain he would do very little.
He was still the same boy who used to stand outside the staff room with folded hands, waiting for permission to speak.
He would look.
He would tremble.
He might touch her breast with one shaking finger and then apologise.
That would be enough.
The humiliation of being naked and untouched by a boy she had terrorised (that alone would feed her for years).
She came again, harder this time, muffling the sound in the pillow, thighs shaking at the thought of Sunday’s delicious, terrifying uncertainty.
Across the balcony, Nikhil was having the exact opposite conversation with himself.
He lay on his back, sheet kicked off, cock still half-hard and aching.
Tomorrow: nothing.
Sunday: everything or nothing.
He kept circling the same two futures.
Future one:
He walks in, she takes the saree off again, and he finally touches her (actually touches her breasts, her waist, maybe even dares to slide a finger between her legs like in the videos).
He imagined her moaning.
He imagined her guiding his hand.
He imagined her telling him he was allowed.
Future two:
He freezes.
He stands there like an idiot, staring, too afraid to move, and she realises he is still the same terrified boy.
She puts the saree back on, disappointed, and the game ends forever.
He didn’t know which future was real.
He only knew one thing with absolute certainty:
He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted Sunday to be Future One.
But he had no idea how to make it happen.
He rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow, and whispered into the dark like a prayer:
“Please don’t let me be too scared.
Please let me be brave enough to touch her.”
He came again, silently, hips jerking into the mattress, tears of frustration and hope mixing on his cheeks.
Nikhil remember Secret Fantasies
(The ones he never dared admit, even to himself, until Day 5 made them real)
For fourteen years, Nikhil had carried Radha Mehta around in his head like a loaded gun he was terrified to touch.
It started innocently enough.
For years, Nikhil’s fantasies about Radha Ma’am were never about love.
They were about revenge.
Class 7: the day she struck his knuckles until they bled because he forgot the value of π to 20 decimal places.
That night he imagined dragging her by the hair to the front of the empty classroom, bending her over the teacher’s desk, lifting her saree, and fucking her while the whole class watched her cry and beg.
Class 9: the day she made him stand outside the staff room holding his ears for forty minutes because he smiled at a joke.
That night he pictured tying her hands with her own ruler, forcing her to her knees in that same staff room, making her suck him while he called her every filthy name he had ever heard in porn.
Class 11: the day she humiliated him in front of thirty boys for a calculation mistake, voice dripping with disgust: “Even a Class 5 child could do better than this.”
That night he imagined chaining her to the blackboard, naked, legs spread, writing “I am Nikhil’s whore” a hundred times while he fucked her from behind and made her read each line aloud.
Every insult, every slap of the ruler, every cold stare (he stored them all).
And in the dark, when his hand was on his cock and his parents were asleep, he turned every wound into a scene where Radha Mehta (the untouchable terror) was stripped, bound, used, degraded, begging, broken.
He wanted to see her perfect bun come undone while he pulled her hair.
He wanted to see that stern mouth stretched around his cock, mascara running.
He wanted to come on her face and make her thank him.
He wanted to fuck her ass while she cried and called him Sir.
He wanted to piss on her precious mangalsutra and watch her lick it clean.
He wanted her to feel every ounce of powerlessness he had felt for fourteen years.
And then, on Day 5, she took her panty off in front of him.
Just like that.
No force.
No revenge.
She simply chose to give him what he had only ever taken in his darkest fantasies.
And suddenly the fantasies changed.
Now when he closed his eyes he saw her on her knees, naked, offering herself.
Now he imagined walking in on Sunday and not asking (just doing).
Pushing her against the wall, ripping the saree off, forcing her legs apart, fucking her mouth while she choked, bending her over the dining table where she once corrected his sums and taking her ass without warning, coming inside her and making her hold it while she crawled to clean his feet.
He no longer needed to imagine forcing her.
She had already started surrendering.
And that made the fantasies darker, sharper, more intoxicating.
Because now it wasn’t revenge.
It was ownership.
And on Sunday, when the door closed and she stood naked in front of him again, he would finally discover which version of himself walked through that door:
The boy who had spent years dreaming of breaking Radha Mehta…
or the man who was about to discover she had handed him the pieces willingly.
Either way, by the end of the seven days, the woman who had once ruled him with terror would know exactly what it felt like to be ruled in return.
And Nikhil, for the first time in his life, couldn’t wait to find out how far he would go.Neither of them slept.
They lay in their separate rooms, ten metres and a lifetime apart, both staring at the same dark ceiling, both asking the same question:
Sunday.
What will the other do when the door finally closes and there is no one left to pretend for?
The night stretched, hot and endless.
And the uncertainty (delicious, terrifying, unbearable) kept them both awake until the first birds began to call.
Friday, 22 May 2020 – 11:17 p.m.
The flat was dark except for the faint orange glow of the streetlight leaking through the living-room curtains.
Lakshmi had been asleep for over an hour, her soft snores drifting down the corridor.
Radha lay on her back in the master bedroom, eyes wide open, staring at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan.
The sheets were kicked to the foot of the bed; the night was too hot, and her skin still felt too alive to be covered.
Between her thighs she was swollen and slick.
Every time she shifted her legs she felt the ghost of where his gaze had been (where her own panty had slid down in front of him only hours earlier).
She pressed her thighs together and let out a shaky breath.
Across the narrow service balcony that connected the two bedrooms, Nikhil lay on his thin cotton mattress, staring at the same ceiling through the open window.
His heart had not slowed down once since 4:26 p.m.
He kept replaying the exact second in slow motion:
Radha Mehta (the woman who once made him stand on the bench for forty minutes because his handwriting was “like a drunk spider”)
standing in the living room in nothing but that sleeveless cream blouse and the maroon saree,
reaching for the waistband of the thin white panty he had watched her wear for five days,
and sliding it down her legs in front of him.
He had expected the game to stop at blouses and pallus.
He had told himself this was just lockdown madness, something to pass the time, something that would never, could never go further than a little dangerous teasing.
And then she had looked him in the eye, hooked her thumbs in, and pulled the last piece down.
He remembered the exact sound the elastic made when it snapped against her thigh.
He remembered the way the cotton clung for a second to the wetness between her legs before it fell.
He remembered the small, dark patch in the centre of the fabric when she folded it and placed it on the pile like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His hand moved unconsciously to his cock under the sheet (hard again, aching again).
He had not dared to believe, even in his most secret, shameful midnight fantasies, that Radha Ma’am would ever be naked in front of him.
Let alone naked from the waist down, sitting back on that chair with her legs slightly apart, letting him look.
He had stared so long and so hard that he still had the image burned behind his eyelids:
the neat triangle of dark hair, the swollen lips already glistening, the way her thighs trembled just a little when she realised how completely he was seeing her.
And the worst part (the best part) was that she had not looked ashamed.
She had looked relieved.
Like someone who had carried a terrible, heavy secret for years and finally set it down.
Nikhil rolled onto his side, pressed his face into the pillow to muffle the groan that wanted to escape.
He had grown up believing Radha Ma’am was made of ice and steel.
He had wet himself in Class 6 when she had raised her voice.
He had cried silently in the toilet after she had struck his knuckles raw.
And today that same woman had taken off her panty in front of him and sat back down with her legs open.
He came again without touching himself, just from the memory, biting the pillow to stay quiet.
In the master bedroom, Radha heard the faint, stifled sound through the open window and smiled into the dark.
She slipped one hand between her legs, circled her clit once, slowly, and whispered to the empty room:
“Tomorrow, baby.
Tomorrow you’ll do more than look.”
She came in less than thirty seconds, thighs clamping around her own fingers, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.
Neither of them slept that night.
They lay ten metres apart, separated by a thin balcony wall, both replaying the same impossible moment over and over:
The exact second the strictest teacher in St. Xavier’s became naked and open and waiting for the boy she had once terrorised.
And the lockdown night stretched on, hot and endless, filled with the sound of two hearts that had finally admitted what they had become.
Radha’s fingers were still between her thighs, slick and trembling, when the second, colder thought slid in like ice water.
What have I done?
Tomorrow is Saturday. Lakshmi will be home all day.
Sunday is two full days away.
Two days of sitting across from him at the dining table, pretending to check sums while remembering how it felt to slide my panty down in front of him.
Two days of watching his eyes flick to me and away, over and over, knowing he has seen me naked below… knowing he has seen me wet.
There is no undoing this.
She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her face into the pillow, and let the truth settle.
She had crossed the line the moment she let the cotton drop.
There was no “little bit further and then stop”.
The line was gone.
She pictured Sunday again, but slower this time, more honest.
She imagined walking in wearing only the maroon saree, nothing beneath.
Imagined letting it fall.
Imagined Nikhil finally reaching out.
But then the other picture came (unwanted, but persistent):
Nikhil freezing.
Nikhil staring, terrified, hands clenched at his sides, too afraid of the woman who once made him cry to even touch her breast.
She realised she didn’t know which version scared her more.
If he touched her, everything changed forever.
If he didn’t… she would have bared herself to a boy who was still too frightened to take what she offered.
Both possibilities made her stomach knot and her cunt clench at the same time.
She decided, there in the dark, that she would not lead on Sunday.
She would let him decide the pace.
She would stand naked and wait.
She wanted to see what the boy would do when he finally understood that the woman who had ruled him for fourteen years was now his to command.
She was almost certain he would do very little.
He was still the same boy who used to stand outside the staff room with folded hands, waiting for permission to speak.
He would look.
He would tremble.
He might touch her breast with one shaking finger and then apologise.
That would be enough.
The humiliation of being naked and untouched by a boy she had terrorised (that alone would feed her for years).
She came again, harder this time, muffling the sound in the pillow, thighs shaking at the thought of Sunday’s delicious, terrifying uncertainty.
Across the balcony, Nikhil was having the exact opposite conversation with himself.
He lay on his back, sheet kicked off, cock still half-hard and aching.
Tomorrow: nothing.
Sunday: everything or nothing.
He kept circling the same two futures.
Future one:
He walks in, she takes the saree off again, and he finally touches her (actually touches her breasts, her waist, maybe even dares to slide a finger between her legs like in the videos).
He imagined her moaning.
He imagined her guiding his hand.
He imagined her telling him he was allowed.
Future two:
He freezes.
He stands there like an idiot, staring, too afraid to move, and she realises he is still the same terrified boy.
She puts the saree back on, disappointed, and the game ends forever.
He didn’t know which future was real.
He only knew one thing with absolute certainty:
He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted Sunday to be Future One.
But he had no idea how to make it happen.
He rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow, and whispered into the dark like a prayer:
“Please don’t let me be too scared.
Please let me be brave enough to touch her.”
He came again, silently, hips jerking into the mattress, tears of frustration and hope mixing on his cheeks.
Nikhil remember Secret Fantasies
(The ones he never dared admit, even to himself, until Day 5 made them real)
For fourteen years, Nikhil had carried Radha Mehta around in his head like a loaded gun he was terrified to touch.
It started innocently enough.
For years, Nikhil’s fantasies about Radha Ma’am were never about love.
They were about revenge.
Class 7: the day she struck his knuckles until they bled because he forgot the value of π to 20 decimal places.
That night he imagined dragging her by the hair to the front of the empty classroom, bending her over the teacher’s desk, lifting her saree, and fucking her while the whole class watched her cry and beg.
Class 9: the day she made him stand outside the staff room holding his ears for forty minutes because he smiled at a joke.
That night he pictured tying her hands with her own ruler, forcing her to her knees in that same staff room, making her suck him while he called her every filthy name he had ever heard in porn.
Class 11: the day she humiliated him in front of thirty boys for a calculation mistake, voice dripping with disgust: “Even a Class 5 child could do better than this.”
That night he imagined chaining her to the blackboard, naked, legs spread, writing “I am Nikhil’s whore” a hundred times while he fucked her from behind and made her read each line aloud.
Every insult, every slap of the ruler, every cold stare (he stored them all).
And in the dark, when his hand was on his cock and his parents were asleep, he turned every wound into a scene where Radha Mehta (the untouchable terror) was stripped, bound, used, degraded, begging, broken.
He wanted to see her perfect bun come undone while he pulled her hair.
He wanted to see that stern mouth stretched around his cock, mascara running.
He wanted to come on her face and make her thank him.
He wanted to fuck her ass while she cried and called him Sir.
He wanted to piss on her precious mangalsutra and watch her lick it clean.
He wanted her to feel every ounce of powerlessness he had felt for fourteen years.
And then, on Day 5, she took her panty off in front of him.
Just like that.
No force.
No revenge.
She simply chose to give him what he had only ever taken in his darkest fantasies.
And suddenly the fantasies changed.
Now when he closed his eyes he saw her on her knees, naked, offering herself.
Now he imagined walking in on Sunday and not asking (just doing).
Pushing her against the wall, ripping the saree off, forcing her legs apart, fucking her mouth while she choked, bending her over the dining table where she once corrected his sums and taking her ass without warning, coming inside her and making her hold it while she crawled to clean his feet.
He no longer needed to imagine forcing her.
She had already started surrendering.
And that made the fantasies darker, sharper, more intoxicating.
Because now it wasn’t revenge.
It was ownership.
And on Sunday, when the door closed and she stood naked in front of him again, he would finally discover which version of himself walked through that door:
The boy who had spent years dreaming of breaking Radha Mehta…
or the man who was about to discover she had handed him the pieces willingly.
Either way, by the end of the seven days, the woman who had once ruled him with terror would know exactly what it felt like to be ruled in return.
And Nikhil, for the first time in his life, couldn’t wait to find out how far he would go.Neither of them slept.
They lay in their separate rooms, ten metres and a lifetime apart, both staring at the same dark ceiling, both asking the same question:
Sunday.
What will the other do when the door finally closes and there is no one left to pretend for?
The night stretched, hot and endless.
And the uncertainty (delicious, terrifying, unbearable) kept them both awake until the first birds began to call.
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