After that first wild afternoon, there was no turning back.

Every glance they exchanged in the corridor burned with memory. Every time he handed her a file or walked past her desk, his fingers brushed just a little too low on her wrist, his breath warm against her skin.

They had become addicted to the secrecy. The where was as thrilling as the how.

Their next encounter happened in Classroom 5A—after hours, lights off, windows cracked open just enough for the rain to send its cool breeze inside.

Nandini was pretending to tidy up chalk dust when Vikrant walked in and locked the door behind him, without a word. She looked up, heart pounding.

“On the teacher’s table,” he said. “Now.”

Her breath caught. She obeyed.

He walked over slowly, eyes devouring her as she sat on the wooden desk and opened her legs slightly, still in her saree, a hint of bare thigh showing between the folds.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured, his hand sliding up her calf, past her knee, under the fabric.

She bit her lip as his fingers found her again—already wet, pulsing. He kissed her hard, hand buried between her legs while his other tugged her blouse down, exposing one perfect breast. His mouth found it instantly, sucking, biting, while his fingers thrust inside her with slow, maddening precision.

She came just from his fingers—body shaking, eyes rolling back, her moans caught in his mouth.

But that was just the beginning.

He spun her around, bent her over the same table students scribbled homework on hours ago. Her cheek pressed against a textbook as he yanked her petticoat down, panties already soaked. He unzipped, guided himself to her slick heat, and entered her with a groan—deep, filling her completely.

The classroom echoed with the sound of skin on skin, her whimpers muffled in her arm. The thrill of being caught—of being taken where she wasn’t supposed to—made her wild.

“You want them to hear you?” he growled, pounding into her harder.

“Yes,” she gasped. “I don’t care—fuck me harder.”

He lost control. He gripped her hips, thrusting faster, deeper, his pelvis slapping her soaked flesh as she came again—loud, shaking, clawing at the table.

He followed her seconds later, groaning her name, body tense, spent.

After, they stood there—panting, clothes half-off, the scent of sex thick in the air.

She turned to him, chest rising and falling. “That desk will never feel the same.”

He smirked. “Neither will you.”

But they weren’t done.

In the weeks that followed, their secret meetings grew bolder:

In the library, hidden between tall shelves, her skirt hiked up as he fingered her to a silent orgasm while students whispered just meters away.

In the audio-visual room, where she sucked him slow and deep while a documentary played on Gandhi’s nonviolence, the irony making her moan around his cock.

In his office, where she straddled him in the chair, blouse unbuttoned, saree falling off her shoulder, riding him while he covered her mouth to silence her cries.

Each time, the risk grew higher. And so did the tension.

But neither could stop.

Nandini was no longer just the quiet, idealistic teacher.

She was the woman who knew exactly what she wanted—and how to take it, even in the most forbidden places.

***