The monsoon rains had just begun to ease, leaving the air thick with the
scent of damp earth and the distant hum of cicadas. Ayushi adjusted the
pleats of her red saree, the silk clinging to her skin in the oppressive heat
as she stepped into the empty staff room. The ceiling fan spun lazily
above, casting shifting shadows over the scattered papers and
half-empty coffee cups left behind by her colleagues. She exhaled sharply,
her fingers trembling as she pulled the door shut behind her. The lock
clicked—finally, some privacy.
Her marriage to Ayush had been a quiet disaster from the start. One
month in, and she already knew the truth: his touch was hesitant, his
body unresponsive. The first time he had failed to harden beneath her,
she had blamed her own nerves. The second time, she had blamed the
wine. But by the fifth, sixth, the excruciatingly polite apologies and his
averted gaze, she had stopped blaming anything but fate. Ayushi loved
sex—the weight of a man above her, the stretch of being filled, the way
her body could unravel into something raw and needy. And now, at
twenty-eight, with a husband who couldn't even want her, she was
starving.
Her breath hitched as she pressed her back against the door, eyes
fluttering shut. The staff room was supposed to be empty—recess had
just begun, and the other teachers were either in the courtyard
supervising or in the canteen gossiping over stale samosas. No one would
walk in. No one would know.
Her fingers slid beneath the folds of her saree, tracing the damp heat
between her thighs. The fabric of her red panties was already sticky,
her arousal slick against her skin. She bit her lip to stifle a whimper as
she circled her clit, slow at first, then faster, her hips rocking in tiny,
desperate motions. The pleasure coiled tight in her belly, her free hand
gripping the edge of a nearby table for balance. "Oh god—" The words
escaped her in a breathy gasp, her nails digging into the wood. She
imagined rough hands pinning her down, a thick cock stretching her
open, the way her husband should have—
A soft creak.
Ayushi's eyes flew open.
Jeet stood in the doorway, his school uniform rumpled, his dark eyes
locked onto her with predatory focus. The bulge in his gray trousers was
impossible to miss—thick, straining against the fabric. Her pulse spiked,
her fingers freezing mid-motion.
"M-Ma'am," he murmured, his voice rough, almost amused. "You forgot I
was detained."
Her face burned. "J-Jeet! Get out—!" She yanked her hand from beneath
her saree, but it was too late. He had already seen everything—the way
her fingers glistened, the way her thighs trembled, the flush spreading
down her chest.
Jeet didn't move. Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen
already recording.
"Delete that," she hissed, stepping forward, her saree rustling. "Delete it
now, or I'll—"
"Or you'll what?" He tilted his head, smirking. "Tell the principal you were
fingering yourself in the staff room? That you moaned like a whore while
thinking about getting fucked?" His gaze raked over her, lingering on her
heaving chest. "I don't think so."
Ayushi's stomach twisted. She knew Jeet's reputation—the way he
dominated the school, the rumors about his temper, the way girls
whispered about his hands. And now, he had her trapped.
"How much?" she demanded, voice shaking. "How much money do you
want?"
Jeet laughed, low and dark. "Money?" He adjusted himself, the outline of
his cock twitching. "No, Ma'am. I don't want money." His eyes darkened.
"I want you."
Her breath caught. She should have been furious. She should have
screamed, threatened, stormed out. But the way he looked at her—like he
already owned her—sent a traitorous thrill through her. And then there
was the bulge. Thick. Long. Nothing like Ayush's limp excuses.
"You're a student," she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction.
"And you're a slut," he shot back, stepping closer. The scent of his
cologne—something musky, expensive—filled her nose. "A married slut who
fingers herself at school because her husband can't fuck her right."
She should have slapped him. Instead, her nipples hardened beneath her
blouse.
"Fine," she breathed. "But not here. Not now."
Jeet's grin was wolfish. "Tonight. Extra class. My place." He leaned in, his
breath hot against her ear. "And Ma'am? Wear heels."
The evening air was cooler, the streetlights flickering to life as Ayushi
adjusted the straps of her red saree in the auto-rickshaw. Her heart
hammered against her ribs. She had told Ayush she had parent-teacher
meetings—he had barely glanced up from his laptop, muttering something
about dinner being in the fridge.
Jeet's apartment was on the third floor of a half-finished building, the
stairs dimly lit, the paint peeling. She hesitated outside the door, her
heels clicking against the concrete. Before she could knock, it swung
open.
Jeet stood there, shirtless, his chest broad and defined, the waistband of
his track pants slung low on his hips. The bulge was still there—thicker
now, the outline of his cock pressing obscenely against the fabric. His
eyes burned as they trailed down her body, lingering on her painted toes,
the curve of her calves, the way her saree clung to her hips.
"You came," he murmured.
She swallowed. "I—"
He didn't let her finish. One hand snapped out, gripping her wrist,
yanking her inside. The door slammed shut behind her. The room was
sparse—a mattress on the floor, a few scattered textbooks, the faint
smell of sweat and cigarette smoke.
"On the bed," he ordered.
Ayushi's pulse roared in her ears. "Jeet—"
"Now."
The command in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. Ayushi walked
over and slowly sat down on the bed, her hands pressing into the
mattress for balance. Jeet stepped closer, then crouched before her. His
fingers slid to the delicate strap of her heel, brushing along the curve of
her foot before easing it off.
"J-Jeet!" She squirmed, but his grip was iron.
"You like that, don't you?" he murmured against her skin. "Being used.
Being told what to do." His teeth grazed her toes, sending a jolt straight
to her clit. "Your husband doesn't know how to treat a whore like you."
She should have been ashamed. Instead, her thighs clenched.
With a sharp tug, he pulled her up, spinning her around. His hands were
everywhere—ripping the pins from her hair, unwrapping her saree with
brutal efficiency. The red fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in just her
bra and panties, the latter already damp.
"Fuck," Jeet groaned, palming her ass. "Look at you. So tight." His fingers
hooked into her panties, tearing them aside. "Already wet for me."
Ayushi moaned as his fingers slid inside her, rough and unrelenting.
"N-not so fast—"
"Shut up." His other hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back.
"You're mine now." He kicked her legs apart, his cock springing
free—thick, veined, the tip already glistening. She had never seen
anything like it.
"Jeet, please—" she begged, but he didn't listen.
With one brutal thrust, he was inside her.
"OH GOD—!" Her nails raked the wall, her body stretching to
accommodate him. He was huge, filling her in a way Ayush never had, the
burn of it exquisite. Jeet groaned, his hips slamming into her, each thrust
punishing, possessive.
"You take it so well," he growled, his breath hot against her neck. "Like
you were made for my cock."
Ayushi could only whimper, her body betraying her as pleasure coiled
tighter, her walls clenching around him. "I—I can't—"
"You will." His hand snaked around her throat, squeezing just enough to
make her vision blur. "Cum for me, Ma'am."
The orgasm hit her like a freight train, her cry muffled against the wall
as her pussy pulsed around him. Jeet didn't stop. He fucked her through
it, his balls slapping against her, his grunts raw in her ear.
"Fuck, I'm gonna—" His grip tightened, his cock swelling inside her. With
a final, brutal thrust, he came, his cum flooding her in thick, hot spurts.
"Take it. All of it."
Ayushi collapsed forward, her legs trembling, her body still throbbing.
Jeet pulled out slowly, his cum dripping down her thighs. Before she could
catch her breath, he spun her around, his mouth crashing onto hers.
"We're not done," he growled.
And they weren't.
For the next two hours, Jeet used her—bending her over the mattress,
pinning her against the wall, forcing her to her knees to take his cock in
her mouth. Each time, she came harder, her moans growing louder, her
resistance crumbling. By the time Ayush's call buzzed in her
purse—"Where are you? I'm home"—her throat was raw, her lips swollen,
and her pussy aching in the best way possible.
Jeet smirked as she fumbled for her saree, her body marked with his
teeth and his cum. "Same time tomorrow, Ma'am?"
Ayushi didn't answer. But the way her fingers trembled as she texted
Ayush—"Stuck in traffic. Be home soon"—said everything.
She was ruined.
And she loved it.