Forbidden Desires

Chapter 1: The First Glimpse

The college campus was alive with the usual bustle—students rushing to classes, professors buried in papers, and the distant hum of chatter. I, Rony, a 28-year-old assistant professor, had just settled into my role, enjoying the attention my charm and teaching skills brought me. Anonymous love letters often found their way to my desk, but I never indulged. Ethics mattered—or so I told myself.

Then, one ordinary morning, everything changed.

I was hurrying to my next lecture when I saw her—a vision in a neatly draped saree, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that made my pulse quicken. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her kohl-lined eyes sharp yet warm. She walked with an effortless grace, her hips swaying subtly with each step. I slowed down, my gaze lingering a second too long before reality snapped me back—I had a class to attend.

Later, I learned her name—Gayu (name changed). A new faculty member in the Economics department. Married. A mother. And completely off-limits.

Yet, fate had other plans.

Chapter 2: The Canteen Confession

Weeks passed with fleeting glances and polite nods. Then, one morning, as I sat alone in the canteen, a soft voice broke my solitude.

"Mind if I join you?"

I looked up to see Gayu standing there, a tray in her hands. She wore a deep red saree today, the blouse snug against her full breasts, the fabric dipping just enough to tease. My throat went dry.

"Of course," I managed.

We talked—about college, students, life. She revealed she was a Malayalee raised in North India, just like me. Her husband lived in Mumbai while she stayed in Bangalore, in a PG near my flat. A detail that lodged itself in my mind.

Our conversations became a ritual. Morning walks, shared meals, stolen moments between lectures. The more we spoke, the more I sensed something beneath her composed exterior—a restlessness, a hunger.

One evening, as we jogged, sweat glistened on her skin, darkening the fabric under her arms. The sight sent a jolt of desire through me. I imagined the musky scent, the salt on my tongue—

"Missing your husband?" I asked casually.

She stiffened. "Yeah, sure. If you say so."

The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable.

Chapter 3: The Breaking Point

Days later, over tea at a quiet bakery, she finally cracked.

"Rony, I need to tell you something," she whispered, her fingers tightening around the cup. "Or my head will burst."

She confessed—her marriage was crumbling. Her husband barely touched her anymore. Six times in five years. Six. And now, she suspected infidelity.

My chest ached for her. But as she spoke, my eyes betrayed me—drifting to the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse, the delicate strap of her bra peeking out.

That night, I texted her: "Sleep well."

No reply.

Chapter 4: The Confession

The next morning, she asked about my secret—the one I’d hinted at before.

Reluctantly, I admitted it: "I like married women."

Her eyes widened. "You’re lying."

I wasn’t. I told her about past affairs—my HOD during college, my previous landlord’s wife. I even showed her the texts.

For a moment, I thought she’d walk away. Instead, she exhaled sharply. "I didn’t expect that."

The air between us shifted. The unspoken tension thickened.

Chapter 5: The Forbidden Gift

Our friendship deepened. She cooked for me at my flat. Called me when she was sick. Let me speak to her daughter.

Then, one day, she left something behind.

After a trip to Kerala, she changed at my place while I was out. When I returned, I found it—a pile of clothes near my laundry bag. A T-shirt. A black panty. A purple bra.

My hands trembled as I lifted the panties. White stains. My nostrils flared as I inhaled—her scent, musky and intoxicating. I couldn’t resist. I came twice that night, her lingerie pressed to my face.

The next day, I returned them, feigning nonchalance.

"Oh, I forgot," she said, but her cheeks flushed.

Chapter 6: The Drunken Confession

Alcohol loosened our tongues. Over beers, she asked about my kinks.

"It’s… dirty," I warned.

"Tell me."

So I did. Armpit worship. Sweat. Piss. Rimjobs.

Her breathing hitched. The beer in her hand forgotten.

"You like nasty things," she murmured.

"Yeah. Do you?"

Her reply sent heat straight to my groin: "I want someone to eat me till I pee in his mouth."

I smirked. "If I were single, I’d help."

She laughed, but her eyes burned.

Chapter 7: The Final Step

Sunday. My flat. She wore a white kurti, her black bra visible through the thin fabric. Tight leggings hugged her hips.

We drank. Laughed. The air between us electric.

Then, as she reached for her glass, her sleeve rode up—revealing damp, dark underarm hair.

Our eyes locked.

No more words were needed.

Part 2: Truth, Dare, and the Point of No Return

The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the half-drawn curtains, casting a warm glow over the living room where we sat, two empty pegs of whiskey already loosening our inhibitions. The air between us was thick with unspoken tension—the kind that lingers when two people know exactly where things might lead but neither dares to voice it yet.

She swirled the last sip of her drink, her dark eyes flickering up at me with a playful challenge. "Truth or dare?" she asked, her voice low, teasing.

I smirked. "Truth."

She leaned forward, her kurti shifting just enough to reveal the curve of her collarbone. "Do you find any of our fellow faculty members attractive?"

I exhaled, grinning. "Yes."

Her lips curled in triumph. "Who?"

I wagged a finger. "Only one question per turn."

She laughed, a rich, throaty sound that sent a jolt straight to my groin. The bottle spun again, landing pointed at her this time.

"Truth," she said before I could even ask.

I studied her—the way her fingers toyed with the hem of her leggings, the faint sheen of sweat on her neck. "What do you want to do right now?"

Her gaze darkened. "Enjoy this day to the maximum."

The words hung between us, heavy with implication. My pulse kicked up. The bottle spun once more.

"Truth," I said when it landed on me.

She didn’t hesitate. "Do you find me desirable?"

The directness of the question sent heat flooding through me. "Yes," I admitted, my voice rougher than I intended. "You’re beautiful."

A slow, pleased smile spread across her face, her cheeks flushing. The air between us crackled.

Then it was her turn. "Dare," she declared.

I wanted to see her sweat, to watch her body strain under my command. "Ten push-ups."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Unless you’re scared."

She scoffed, dropping to the floor with surprising grace. As she pushed herself up, her kurti rode up, exposing the smooth skin of her lower back. I watched the muscles in her arms flex, the way her breath hitched on the eighth rep. When she finished, she sat back on her heels, chest rising and falling. "Happy?"

"Very," I murmured.

The bottle spun again. My turn.

"Truth," she said, licking her lips.

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. "What’s a kink you’ve always wanted to try?"

Her fingers brushed my thigh, sending a jolt through me. "I asked first," she countered.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close she was. "I… I’d love to lick your underarms."

The admission hung in the air. Her blush deepened, but her eyes gleamed. Without a word, she raised her arms. "Do it."

I froze. "But—"

She cut me off, her voice firm. "Undress me."

The command shattered my restraint. In seconds, I was on her, my hands gripping her waist as I buried my face in the crook of her neck. The scent of her—musky, sweet, intoxicating—flooded my senses. My lips found her underarm, and the first lick sent a shudder through both of us.

She gasped, her fingers tangling in my hair as I worshiped her skin, lapping at the salt of her sweat, the faint tang of her deodorant mingling with something uniquely her.

"God, you smell good," I groaned against her skin.

She responded by spitting into her other underarm and shoving my face into it. The act was filthy, primal. I moaned, drunk on her, my hands groping her breasts through the thin fabric of her kurti.

I yanked the garment over her head, revealing a plain black bra struggling to contain her heavy, sagging breasts. Her nipples were dark and pebbled, begging for my mouth. I took one between my teeth, biting just hard enough to make her whimper.

"Harder," she begged, arching into me.

For twenty minutes, I lost myself in her—sucking her nipples, licking the sweat from her navel, marking every inch of her skin. A wet patch darkened the front of her leggings, and when she climbed onto my lap, her mouth found my neck, my chest, my own nipples.

Then she was on her knees, pulling my pants down, freeing my aching cock. Her nose brushed against my shaft as she inhaled deeply, her tongue flicking out to taste my balls before taking me into her mouth.

The sight of her—lips stretched around me, tears welling in her eyes as I gripped her hair and fucked her throat—was almost too much. When I came, she swallowed every drop, licking her fingers clean before collapsing onto the floor, spent.

But I wasn’t done.

I peeled her leggings down, revealing soaked white panties. Her pussy glistened under the fabric, the scent of her arousal thick in the air. I buried my face between her thighs, licking, sucking, until she trembled beneath me.

Then she whispered the words that sent me over the edge:

"I want to pee in your mouth."

I groaned, spreading her wider. The first hot stream hit my tongue, bitter and intoxicating. She moaned as I drank her in, her hands fisting in my hair.

After, she kissed me, her tongue sliding against mine, our mouths sharing the taste of her.

We stumbled to the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. I fucked her in every position, her ass, her pussy, her mouth—claiming her completely. When she came, screaming my name, I filled her with my cum, our bodies slick with sweat and pleasure.

We slept, tangled together, only to wake and do it all over again.

The Aftermath

For six months, we met in secret—in my apartment, in cheap hotels, even once in an empty college classroom. She confessed she’d planned this, had taken the pill knowing what would happen.

When she left for Kerala, we promised to stay in touch. And though miles separate us now, the memory of her—her taste, her scent, the way she wanted me—still lingers.