Misc. Erotica Meera - The Math Teacher

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Episode 15 – Mean Value Theorem

Sunday. No college. No workshop. Just the second full dress rehearsal at 4 p.m. and a day that felt like the longest interval in Arjun’s life.

He woke early, the fracture from last night still raw.
Love. The word sat heavy on his tongue, undeniable now. Not the filmy kind with songs and running through airports, but something quieter and more dangerous: the certainty that her happiness mattered more than his own, even if it meant watching her laugh in someone else’s arms on stage.

He spent the morning trying to study—vector calculus, triple integrals—but every theorem reminded him of her. The Mean Value Theorem especially mocked him: somewhere between his starting point (infatuation) and now, there had to be an instant where the rate of change of his feelings equalled the average rate over the whole interval. That instant had been yesterday, under the blue terrace lights, when Priya’s thumbs brushed Meera’s cheeks and Arjun’s heart accepted what his mind had been denying for weeks.

By noon he gave up pretending to revise. He showered, changed into his best casual shirt (light blue, the colour of her first saree), and left the house under the pretext of “library.” Instead he walked aimlessly through Koramangala’s quieter lanes, past cafés spilling filter-coffee aromas, past couples sharing earphones under trees. Every woman in red made his pulse spike until he realised it wasn’t her.

At 3:30 he reached college. The auditorium was already humming—today was open to a small invited audience: a few teachers, some senior students, parents of the cast. Sports Day practice had ended early; the field was free, but Arjun had no interest in running.

He slipped into the auditorium through the side entrance. The house lights were half-up, seats filling slowly. He took his usual prompter spot in the third row, script in lap, but his eyes searched only for her.

The cast was backstage. He could hear Priya’s voice carrying: “Wife, where’s my lucky sherwani button? You hid it again!”

Meera’s laugh floated back, light and fond. “Check your pocket, drama queen.”

Arjun’s stomach twisted.
Lights dimmed. Shetty sir welcomed the small audience. Curtain.

Act One began smoothly—Mrs. Nair stealing the show as the domineering saas, D’Souza grumbling perfectly. Then Meera entered for her first scene.
Today the costume was different: a deep green lehenga-choli for the “post-marriage family function” sequence, the choli cropped short, leaving her entire midriff bare from just below the blouse to the low lehenga skirt. A thin gold chain circled her waist, dipping into her navel like an accent mark on a perfect sentence.

Arjun forgot to breathe.
The green silk caught every light, the bare midriff glowing warm gold under the spots. When she moved—dancing lightly to a recorded filmi track for the sangeet scene—the chain swayed, drawing the eye inexorably to the navel he had glimpsed only in fragments before: deep, symmetrical, the soft skin around it rising and falling with her breath like a slow cosine wave.

Mean Value Theorem in flesh: over the interval of her movement, there existed a moment where the rate of his heartbeat equalled the average rate of his obsession—and that moment was now.
The dance ended. Applause. Priya entered as the husband, pulling Meera into a playful twirl that ended with her back against Priya’s chest, Priya’s hands resting possessively on Meera’s bare waist, thumbs brushing the gold chain.

The audience cooed. Arjun’s vision narrowed to those hands—Priya’s fingers splayed across skin he had only worshipped from afar.
The terrace scene came too soon.
Blue lights. Fake moon. Same lines.
But today, with an audience, the acting felt different—bolder. Priya stepped close, cupped Meera’s face exactly as rehearsed, but this time her thumbs lingered longer, tracing the line of Meera’s jaw before sliding down to rest at the base of her throat—just above the choli neckline, over the soft hollow between collarbones.

Meera’s eyes fluttered closed again, longer this time. Her lips parted on the final line: “You are my constant… through every variable.”
The audience sighed. A few teachers clapped softly.

Arjun stood abruptly, script falling to the floor with a soft thud no one noticed. He walked out of the auditorium on legs that didn’t feel like his, down the corridor, out into the sports field where the evening sun was setting fire to the clouds.
He ran.

Not away from the college, but toward the empty 800-metre track that circled the ground. He ran like he had never run before—not for PT marks, not for house points, but to outrun the image of Priya’s hands on Meera’s skin, the softness in Meera’s eyes that wasn’t for him.

Lap one: anger—at Priya, at himself, at the unfairness of it all.

Lap two: despair—the certainty that he would always be the prompter, never the husband.

Lap three: clarity—the Mean Value Theorem cutting clean through the noise.

There exists a point in time where the instantaneous rate of change equals the average.
He slowed on the fourth lap, chest burning, sweat mixing with something that might have been tears. He stopped at the finish line, hands on knees, gasping.

Coach Matthew, watching from the pavilion, blew his whistle. “Rao! Good timing—3:12 for 800 m. Personal best?”

Arjun straightened, lungs on fire. “Yes, sir.”
Coach grinned. “Keep that fire. Inter-house next week—you’re my anchor.”

Arjun nodded, wiping his face with his shirt hem.
He had run his fastest not because he was chasing a medal, but because he was running from a truth he couldn’t yet face.

He walked back slowly, cooling down, the sun dipping low.
The rehearsal would be ending soon. He could still catch the final bows.

He re-entered the auditorium just as the lights came up for curtain call. The small audience applauded enthusiastically. The cast bowed—Mrs. Nair milking it, Priya blowing kisses, Meera smiling shyly, hands pressed together in namaste.

Then something happened.
As the cast straightened, Meera’s eyes scanned the small crowd—and landed on him, standing at the back, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him, chest still heaving from the run.

Her smile changed. Not the polite teacher smile, not the stage smile, but something softer, surprised, almost… proud?

She held his gaze for three full seconds—long enough for Priya to notice and follow her line of sight, eyebrow arching.

Then the lights dimmed for the crew bow, and the moment broke.
But it had existed.

A point on the interval where the derivative of her attention matched the average of his effort.
He walked home in the dark, the city lights flickering on one by one.

Tomorrow there would be another rehearsal.
Tomorrow the play would be one day closer to opening night.

But tonight, for the first time, he felt the curve of possibility bend—just slightly—toward him.
The Mean Value Theorem had spoken.
And somewhere on that interval, everything had changed.