The cream saree hugged Shreya’s curves perfectly—elegant but undeniably sensual. She stood before the mirror, adjusting the pleats at her waist, brushing a final stroke of kohl beneath her eyes. The tag on her chest read:

Shreya Sagar Mishra – Assistant Professor, English Department.

Her smile was soft, proud. She had earned this.

College was a flurry of new introductions, polite nods, faculty room pleasantries, and curious student stares. Shreya held her poise like armor, but under it, she vibrated with a quiet thrill.

The first lecture was smooth—voice steady, examples sharp, and eyes focused. But her phone buzzed just as she closed her notebook after the class.

Sagar: Outside. I brought lunch—and mischief.

She smiled and stepped out into the warm Bhubaneswar noon. There he was, parked just beyond the gate, arms folded, sunglasses reflecting the sun.

He grinned when he saw her. “Climb on, Professor. I’m starving.”

They rode toward a secluded park near the Udayagiri caves. An empty bench beneath an old banyan tree awaited them.

He unpacked a steel tiffin box—idlis, chutney, and two sweet rasgullas.

She laughed. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I plan to,” he said, feeding her a bite with his fingers.

His thumb lingered at her lower lip, smearing a dot of chutney. She licked it instinctively—and that one slow, unconscious motion changed the air between them.

His gaze darkened. He leaned in.

She whispered, “Sagar, we’re in public…”

“No one’s here. And you—draped like that—you expect me to just feed you idlis?”

She looked around. The park was empty except for the wind rustling leaves.

Then she pulled him by the collar and kissed him—deep, urgent, wet.

He stood, dragging her with him to the shaded side of the bench. She gasped as he pushed her against the stone, her back arched, saree rustling between them.

His hands roamed freely—under the fabric, over her hips, sliding up her thighs. She opened her legs without protest, her breath quickening as his fingers found the heat between them, bare under the thin cotton of her panties.

“You’re soaked already,” he murmured.

“I’ve wanted you since the morning,” she confessed, biting his earlobe.

He dropped to his knees before her, pulling her saree up and her underwear down, kissing the insides of her thighs, licking slow trails of fire into her.

She moaned, clutched his head, thighs trembling as she came—sharp, sudden, against his mouth.

Then she pulled him up, unzipped his pants, freed him.

“Sit,” she ordered.

He obeyed, and she straddled him, guiding him in slowly, inch by inch, biting her lip as he filled her. Her saree hung like a veil around them as she rode him, back arched, head thrown back. Each thrust met with desperate, muffled moans. Her nails dug into his shoulder as she came again, harder.

When he came, he groaned into her neck, holding her tightly, breathless.

For a moment, all was still.

Then they laughed—soft and breathless.

“Welcome to academia,” he whispered.

***