Nandini’s first job as a junior teacher came quicker than expected—a prestigious private school on the outskirts of Bhubaneswar. The campus was green, disciplined, and steeped in silence, where every hallway echoed with the sound of chalk on board and leather shoes on polished floors.

But nothing excited her more than Room 204

Because he was there.

Mr. Vikrant Sinha, the Principal. Early 40s, well-built, salt-and-pepper stubble, always in crisp linen shirts with the top button open just enough to distract. He taught like he spoke—confident, commanding, with a hint of danger in his voice. The students adored him. The staff… whispered.

Nandini tried to stay professional. But he watched her. Every staff meeting, every chance encounter in the corridor—his eyes would linger just a moment too long. His voice would drop when addressing her.

It wasn’t innocent.

And she didn’t want it to be.

One Friday afternoon, when the school had emptied out for a cultural break, Nandini stayed behind to grade papers. Rain lashed against the windows. The corridors were silent.

That’s when Vikrant entered the staff room, locking the door behind him.

“You always stay late?” he asked, walking toward her, unhurried.

Nandini swallowed. “Sometimes. Just to finish work.”

“Hmm. Always the good girl.” He stepped closer, his scent a mix of coffee, rain, and authority. “I’ve noticed you. The way you look at me.”

She didn’t answer. Her pulse thundered.

He walked behind her desk, placing his hand on the back of her chair, then leaned in—his lips barely brushing her ear.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice deep.

“No,” she whispered.

In one motion, he pulled her chair back, turned her to face him, and kissed her—hard, consuming. His hands roamed beneath her saree, pushing up the pleats, bunching the soft cotton around her thighs. She moaned into his mouth as his fingers slid between her legs, finding her already wet.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he said, kneeling in front of her like a man ready to worship.

He pushed her legs wide and buried his face in her soaked panties, licking over the fabric, teasing her clit until she was squirming in the chair. Then he tugged them aside, his tongue exploring her folds—slow, thorough, relentless.

She gripped the edge of the desk, her head thrown back, biting her lip to keep from screaming as he licked her deep and fast, fingers pumping inside her.

When she came, her thighs clenched around his head, her whole body shuddering as her cries echoed off the staff room walls.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood, unbuckled his belt, and pulled her up onto the desk. Her blouse ripped open, buttons flying, her breasts spilling out, nipples hard and begging. He sucked on them roughly, one hand pinning her wrists above her head.

Then he pushed into her—hard, deep, full.

The desk creaked under the rhythm of their bodies. His thrusts were brutal, controlled, each one pulling a gasp from her lips. Her saree bunched around her waist, legs wrapped around his hips, the slap of skin loud in the silence of the room.

“You like being fucked where you work?” he growled in her ear.

“Yes—don’t stop,” she moaned, hips grinding into him.

He flipped her over, bent her over the desk, and drove into her from behind—his hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist as he pounded her mercilessly. She was soaked, dripping, every thrust pushing her further into ecstasy.

She came again, screaming into her own arm as he followed with a low groan, spilling inside her.

When it was over, they stayed there—panting, sweating, bodies still twitching from the aftershocks.

He helped button what was left of her blouse, gently kissed the bruise forming on her thigh.

“Same time next week?” he smirked.

She smiled, fixing her saree. “Maybe sooner.”

***