I’m Arjun, twenty-seven. I finished my engineering two years ago and started giving private tuition for maths and physics to pay for my own coaching. Most of my students are college level. One of them is different.
Her name is Mrs. Anjali Sharma. Thirty-four. She teaches English literature at a college in Andheri, but she hired me for her younger brother who is preparing for entrance exams. The brother comes three days a week. On Tuesdays and Fridays she is the one who sits in the room, “just to make sure he is studying,” she says. He is usually in the other room with headphones. She stays.
Anjali is fair, soft-spoken, with the kind of quiet face that looks strict under the white tube light but becomes something else the moment the light is lower. She usually wears simple cotton sarees or long kurtis. Nothing that draws attention. Yet the way the fabric rests on her hips when she stands to pour water stays in the mind longer than it should.
Her flat is on the fourth floor of an old building in Vile Parle. Two bedrooms, thin walls, and a balcony that faces the rain more often than the sun.
That Friday the rain started in the afternoon and refused to stop. By 7:30 p.m. her brother had already finished his session and left for a friend’s place. I was packing my books when she came out of the kitchen with two cups of tea.
“Baitho thodi der,” she said. “Barish bahut tez hai. Raste mein paani bhar gaya hoga.”
I sat on the sofa. She sat on the single chair opposite me, the cup held in both hands. The only light was the warm yellow one in the living room. Outside the rain hit the balcony railing in a steady rhythm.
We talked about ordinary things — the entrance exam pattern, how the traffic in Vile Parle never improves, how her husband was in Bangalore for a project until the next Wednesday. The conversation slowed after a while. She looked at the rain, then at me.
“Aapko kabhi ajeeb lagta hai?” she asked quietly.
“Kya?”
“Yeh… itni raat tak yahan rukna. Mere ghar mein.”
I looked at her. In the soft light her eyes looked darker. A small strand of hair had come loose near her ear.
“Kabhi-kabhi,” I answered.
She smiled a little, then looked down at her cup. After a few seconds her bare foot, resting on the edge of the centre table, moved a fraction closer to mine. The side of her foot touched mine. Light. Testing.
I did not pull away.
She set the cup down. Then she stood up, came around the table, and sat on the sofa beside me, closer than usual. The cotton of her kurti brushed my arm. I could smell the mild soap on her skin and the warmer scent underneath.
“Arjun…” she said my name like a question.
I turned toward her. Our faces were close. I could see the small freckle near her collarbone that the neckline of her kurti usually hid. I kissed her.
Soft at first. Her lips opened slowly. Her tongue met mine with a hesitation that lasted only a second, then became hungry. Her hand came up and rested on my chest. I slid my arm around her waist and pulled her closer. The kurti was soft and warm. Underneath, her body felt full and soft.
My hand moved under the kurti and found the bare skin of her lower back, then the curve of her hip. She was wearing thin cotton leggings. No hard lines. Only soft flesh under my palm.
I pushed the kurti higher. She raised her arms and let me take it off. She sat there in a simple beige bra and the leggings, breathing faster. Her breasts were heavy, soft, the dark nipples already tight against the thin fabric. I bent and kissed the skin above the bra, then lower. She held my head and pressed me closer.
I unhooked the bra. It fell onto the sofa. I took one breast in my mouth, sucking slowly, then harder. A low sound left her throat. My other hand slid inside the waistband of her leggings and found the heat between her legs. She was already wet — properly wet. My fingers moved between her soft lips. She opened her legs a little wider and whispered my name once.
I pushed the leggings and her panties down together. She lifted her hips to help. When they came off, a thin string of wetness connected them to her for a moment before breaking.
I opened my pants. She watched as my cock came out, thick and hard. She reached and held it, stroking slowly, her eyes fixed on it. Then she shifted on the sofa and took the head into her mouth. Warm. Wet. Careful at first, then deeper. Her tongue moved under the head while her hand worked the rest. I held her hair loosely and watched, the rain still loud against the balcony glass.
After a few minutes she pulled off, breathing hard, and lay back on the sofa, spreading her legs for me. I climbed over her. She guided me to her entrance with her hand. The first push went halfway. She was tight and extremely wet. I pushed the rest in slowly. Her mouth opened. When I was fully inside she wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me deeper.
I fucked her in long, steady strokes. The sofa made soft sounds under us. Her breasts moved with every thrust. She kept her eyes open, watching my face.
“Thoda tez…” she whispered.
I went harder. The sound of skin meeting skin mixed with the rain. She started moaning properly — low, uncontrolled sounds that she tried to keep quiet because the walls were thin. One of her hands went between us and rubbed her clit while I moved inside her.
I felt her get tighter. Her legs locked around me. She came with a broken cry that she buried against my shoulder, her pussy pulsing hard around my cock. I kept going through it. Everything became wetter.
I pulled out, turned her onto her stomach over the arm of the sofa, pulled her hips up, and entered her from behind. Deeper this time. She pushed back against me. I held her soft waist and fucked her hard. The flesh of her ass shook with every thrust. She came again, quieter, face pressed into the cushion.
I was close. I pulled out, turned her onto her back again, and stroked myself. She watched, then reached and took over, aiming me at her stomach and the underside of her breasts. I came hard — thick ropes across her soft belly and heavy breasts.
We stayed like that for almost a minute, both breathing heavily.
She looked at the door of the flat, then at me.
“Bhaiya late aayega aaj,” she said softly. “Uske friend ke yahan rukega.”
I nodded.
She sat up slowly, found her clothes, and put them back on. I pulled my pants up. Within a few minutes the living room looked almost normal again — only the faint scent of her skin remained on the sofa.
At the door she paused and looked back once.
“Mangalwar ko bhi class hai,” she said quietly. “Agar barish huyi… to rukna.”
Then she closed the door softly behind me.
I walked down the stairs in the rain, the smell of her still on my fingers, already knowing I would not wait for the rain the next time.
The following Tuesday the sky was clear. Her brother finished his session at 7:40 and left. I packed my bag slowly. Anjali came out of the kitchen and simply said,
“Aaj chai nahi. Andar aao.”
She led me into her bedroom. The bed was neatly made. She locked the door, turned, and pulled her own kurti off without waiting. The bra followed. She pushed me onto the bed and climbed over me, straddling my hips. She opened my pants, took me out, stroked me once, then lowered herself onto me slowly until I was fully inside.
She moved in deep, rolling circles, her hands on my chest, looking down at my face. When she came she leaned forward and bit my shoulder to keep the sound inside. I held her hips and came deep inside her a few moments later.
Afterwards she stayed on top of me for a long time, forehead against mine.
“Yeh sirf class ke baad ki baat hai,” she said quietly.
I did not answer. The sentence already felt thin.
Over the next three weeks it happened seven more times.
Once in the afternoon when her brother had gone for a mock test and her husband was still in Bangalore. She opened the door in only a thin nighty, pulled me inside, and we did not even reach the bed. I took her against the wall near the entrance, her leg raised around my hip, her hand over her own mouth.
Once late in the evening after the rain returned. We stayed in the living room again, but this time she went down on her knees on the carpet and took me deep into her throat until her eyes watered. Then I lifted her onto the dining table and entered her while she held onto the edges.
Once on a Sunday morning when she messaged me that her husband had extended his stay and her brother was at a relative’s place. I reached her flat at 11 a.m. She was still in her nighty. We spent almost three hours in her bedroom. Slow at first, then harder. She came four times that day — twice against my tongue, twice with me inside her.
Each time the urgency grew. Each time the silence afterward carried more weight.
On the last Friday of the month her husband was due back the next morning. The final class of the week ended at 7:30. Her brother left. She locked the main door, took my hand, and led me to the bedroom without a word.
That night was slower than the others. We undressed each other carefully. I spent a long time with my mouth on her breasts and between her legs until she came twice, quietly, against my tongue. When I finally entered her we moved together for a long time, changing positions whenever one of us needed a different depth. She was on top for a while, then I was behind her, then she was on her back with her legs over my shoulders.
Near the end she looked up at me and said, almost in a whisper,
“Kal se woh aa jayega. Phir se normal ho jayega.”
I did not answer with words. I just kept moving until we both came hard, her nails on my back, my face against her neck.
Afterwards we lay side by side in the dark, listening to the quiet building.
She turned her head toward me and said quietly,
“Agar phir se koi late class mili… to bag mat pack karna jaldi.”
I nodded.
She dressed first. I did the same. At the door she touched my wrist once, lightly, then let go.
I walked down the stairs into the humid night, the smell of her still on my skin, already counting the days until the next time the fourth-floor door would open for me after the last class.
Her name is Mrs. Anjali Sharma. Thirty-four. She teaches English literature at a college in Andheri, but she hired me for her younger brother who is preparing for entrance exams. The brother comes three days a week. On Tuesdays and Fridays she is the one who sits in the room, “just to make sure he is studying,” she says. He is usually in the other room with headphones. She stays.
Anjali is fair, soft-spoken, with the kind of quiet face that looks strict under the white tube light but becomes something else the moment the light is lower. She usually wears simple cotton sarees or long kurtis. Nothing that draws attention. Yet the way the fabric rests on her hips when she stands to pour water stays in the mind longer than it should.
Her flat is on the fourth floor of an old building in Vile Parle. Two bedrooms, thin walls, and a balcony that faces the rain more often than the sun.
That Friday the rain started in the afternoon and refused to stop. By 7:30 p.m. her brother had already finished his session and left for a friend’s place. I was packing my books when she came out of the kitchen with two cups of tea.
“Baitho thodi der,” she said. “Barish bahut tez hai. Raste mein paani bhar gaya hoga.”
I sat on the sofa. She sat on the single chair opposite me, the cup held in both hands. The only light was the warm yellow one in the living room. Outside the rain hit the balcony railing in a steady rhythm.
We talked about ordinary things — the entrance exam pattern, how the traffic in Vile Parle never improves, how her husband was in Bangalore for a project until the next Wednesday. The conversation slowed after a while. She looked at the rain, then at me.
“Aapko kabhi ajeeb lagta hai?” she asked quietly.
“Kya?”
“Yeh… itni raat tak yahan rukna. Mere ghar mein.”
I looked at her. In the soft light her eyes looked darker. A small strand of hair had come loose near her ear.
“Kabhi-kabhi,” I answered.
She smiled a little, then looked down at her cup. After a few seconds her bare foot, resting on the edge of the centre table, moved a fraction closer to mine. The side of her foot touched mine. Light. Testing.
I did not pull away.
She set the cup down. Then she stood up, came around the table, and sat on the sofa beside me, closer than usual. The cotton of her kurti brushed my arm. I could smell the mild soap on her skin and the warmer scent underneath.
“Arjun…” she said my name like a question.
I turned toward her. Our faces were close. I could see the small freckle near her collarbone that the neckline of her kurti usually hid. I kissed her.
Soft at first. Her lips opened slowly. Her tongue met mine with a hesitation that lasted only a second, then became hungry. Her hand came up and rested on my chest. I slid my arm around her waist and pulled her closer. The kurti was soft and warm. Underneath, her body felt full and soft.
My hand moved under the kurti and found the bare skin of her lower back, then the curve of her hip. She was wearing thin cotton leggings. No hard lines. Only soft flesh under my palm.
I pushed the kurti higher. She raised her arms and let me take it off. She sat there in a simple beige bra and the leggings, breathing faster. Her breasts were heavy, soft, the dark nipples already tight against the thin fabric. I bent and kissed the skin above the bra, then lower. She held my head and pressed me closer.
I unhooked the bra. It fell onto the sofa. I took one breast in my mouth, sucking slowly, then harder. A low sound left her throat. My other hand slid inside the waistband of her leggings and found the heat between her legs. She was already wet — properly wet. My fingers moved between her soft lips. She opened her legs a little wider and whispered my name once.
I pushed the leggings and her panties down together. She lifted her hips to help. When they came off, a thin string of wetness connected them to her for a moment before breaking.
I opened my pants. She watched as my cock came out, thick and hard. She reached and held it, stroking slowly, her eyes fixed on it. Then she shifted on the sofa and took the head into her mouth. Warm. Wet. Careful at first, then deeper. Her tongue moved under the head while her hand worked the rest. I held her hair loosely and watched, the rain still loud against the balcony glass.
After a few minutes she pulled off, breathing hard, and lay back on the sofa, spreading her legs for me. I climbed over her. She guided me to her entrance with her hand. The first push went halfway. She was tight and extremely wet. I pushed the rest in slowly. Her mouth opened. When I was fully inside she wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me deeper.
I fucked her in long, steady strokes. The sofa made soft sounds under us. Her breasts moved with every thrust. She kept her eyes open, watching my face.
“Thoda tez…” she whispered.
I went harder. The sound of skin meeting skin mixed with the rain. She started moaning properly — low, uncontrolled sounds that she tried to keep quiet because the walls were thin. One of her hands went between us and rubbed her clit while I moved inside her.
I felt her get tighter. Her legs locked around me. She came with a broken cry that she buried against my shoulder, her pussy pulsing hard around my cock. I kept going through it. Everything became wetter.
I pulled out, turned her onto her stomach over the arm of the sofa, pulled her hips up, and entered her from behind. Deeper this time. She pushed back against me. I held her soft waist and fucked her hard. The flesh of her ass shook with every thrust. She came again, quieter, face pressed into the cushion.
I was close. I pulled out, turned her onto her back again, and stroked myself. She watched, then reached and took over, aiming me at her stomach and the underside of her breasts. I came hard — thick ropes across her soft belly and heavy breasts.
We stayed like that for almost a minute, both breathing heavily.
She looked at the door of the flat, then at me.
“Bhaiya late aayega aaj,” she said softly. “Uske friend ke yahan rukega.”
I nodded.
She sat up slowly, found her clothes, and put them back on. I pulled my pants up. Within a few minutes the living room looked almost normal again — only the faint scent of her skin remained on the sofa.
At the door she paused and looked back once.
“Mangalwar ko bhi class hai,” she said quietly. “Agar barish huyi… to rukna.”
Then she closed the door softly behind me.
I walked down the stairs in the rain, the smell of her still on my fingers, already knowing I would not wait for the rain the next time.
The following Tuesday the sky was clear. Her brother finished his session at 7:40 and left. I packed my bag slowly. Anjali came out of the kitchen and simply said,
“Aaj chai nahi. Andar aao.”
She led me into her bedroom. The bed was neatly made. She locked the door, turned, and pulled her own kurti off without waiting. The bra followed. She pushed me onto the bed and climbed over me, straddling my hips. She opened my pants, took me out, stroked me once, then lowered herself onto me slowly until I was fully inside.
She moved in deep, rolling circles, her hands on my chest, looking down at my face. When she came she leaned forward and bit my shoulder to keep the sound inside. I held her hips and came deep inside her a few moments later.
Afterwards she stayed on top of me for a long time, forehead against mine.
“Yeh sirf class ke baad ki baat hai,” she said quietly.
I did not answer. The sentence already felt thin.
Over the next three weeks it happened seven more times.
Once in the afternoon when her brother had gone for a mock test and her husband was still in Bangalore. She opened the door in only a thin nighty, pulled me inside, and we did not even reach the bed. I took her against the wall near the entrance, her leg raised around my hip, her hand over her own mouth.
Once late in the evening after the rain returned. We stayed in the living room again, but this time she went down on her knees on the carpet and took me deep into her throat until her eyes watered. Then I lifted her onto the dining table and entered her while she held onto the edges.
Once on a Sunday morning when she messaged me that her husband had extended his stay and her brother was at a relative’s place. I reached her flat at 11 a.m. She was still in her nighty. We spent almost three hours in her bedroom. Slow at first, then harder. She came four times that day — twice against my tongue, twice with me inside her.
Each time the urgency grew. Each time the silence afterward carried more weight.
On the last Friday of the month her husband was due back the next morning. The final class of the week ended at 7:30. Her brother left. She locked the main door, took my hand, and led me to the bedroom without a word.
That night was slower than the others. We undressed each other carefully. I spent a long time with my mouth on her breasts and between her legs until she came twice, quietly, against my tongue. When I finally entered her we moved together for a long time, changing positions whenever one of us needed a different depth. She was on top for a while, then I was behind her, then she was on her back with her legs over my shoulders.
Near the end she looked up at me and said, almost in a whisper,
“Kal se woh aa jayega. Phir se normal ho jayega.”
I did not answer with words. I just kept moving until we both came hard, her nails on my back, my face against her neck.
Afterwards we lay side by side in the dark, listening to the quiet building.
She turned her head toward me and said quietly,
“Agar phir se koi late class mili… to bag mat pack karna jaldi.”
I nodded.
She dressed first. I did the same. At the door she touched my wrist once, lightly, then let go.
I walked down the stairs into the humid night, the smell of her still on my skin, already counting the days until the next time the fourth-floor door would open for me after the last class.