You pile your tray high—aloo paratha steaming hot, the ghee glistening golden on the surface, green chutney sharp with coriander and chili, a mound of curd cool and creamy beside it. The cafeteria hums around you: steel plates clinking, voices overlapping in Hindi and English, the sizzle of fresh pav bhaji from the counter, the sweet steam of chai curling up from kullads. Your friends are already tearing into their food—Vicky moaning dramatically over his cheese grill, Fatty shoveling anda bhurji like it's his last meal, Karan demolishing a chicken roll with athletic efficiency.
You take your first bite, the paratha flaky and buttery, spice blooming hot on your tongue, and that's when your phone buzzes again. Just a subtle vibration, but you know. You glance down discreetly.
Balance: ₹13,450 (₹10,000 credit received)
A slow, secret heat spreads through your chest. Ten thousand, just like that. Every day. You almost laugh into your curd.
And then the cafeteria doors swing open, and Professor Ananya Sharma walks in.
The noise doesn't stop, but it dulls, like someone turned the volume down a notch. Heads turn—subtle, then not so subtle. She's thirty-two, divorced (campus gossip, courtesy of Vicky's endless Discord scrolling), and the kind of woman who makes sarees look illegal. Today's is deep crimson silk, draped low on her hips, the pallu slipping just enough to reveal the soft, creamy swell of her midriff. Her blouse is tight—deliberately so—black, sleeveless, cupping heavy, full breasts that shift with every step, the deep neckline framing cleavage you could lose yourself in. Her ass is a slow, swaying masterpiece, round and thick, the pleats of her saree clinging to every curve. Long dark hair cascades down her back, a few strands loose around her face, and her lips are painted the same red as the silk.
She moves through the crowd like she knows exactly what she does to people. And she does.
Your cock twitches hard under the table—immediate, thick, insistent. The system's gift: no half-measures. You feel the blood rush south, shaft swelling against the seam of your jeans, the head already sensitive, leaking a slow bead of precum that soaks into your boxer briefs. You shift in your seat, trying to adjust without being obvious, but the friction only makes it worse. Your mouth goes dry. You can almost smell her from here—jasmine perfume mixed with warm skin and something darker, feminine.
Vicky elbows you, voice low. "Bhai, close your mouth. You're drooling."
You force a grin, but your eyes stay on her. She queues for coffee, hips cocked, one hand resting lightly on the curve of her waist. A junior tries to flirt; she smiles politely, dismisses him with a soft laugh that carries anyway. Then her gaze sweeps the room—and lands on you.
You don't look away.
Her eyes widen a fraction. Recognition? Curiosity? Something hungrier. She tilts her head, lips curving, and starts walking straight toward your table.
Fatty chokes on his paratha. Karan straightens up, suddenly interested in posture. Vicky whispers, "Yaar, no way."
She stops right beside you, the scent of jasmine and warm silk enveloping you like a caress. Up close, she's even more devastating—kohl-lined eyes, full lips, skin glowing under the fluorescent lights. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, nipples faintly visible against the thin blouse fabric, already peaked.
"Arjun Mehta, right?" Her voice is low, husky, like smoke and honey. "First-year CS? I saw your name on the orientation list."
You stand—slowly, deliberately—letting her take in the full effect of the system's upgrades. Taller, broader, sharper. Her gaze flicks down, then back up, lingering on your chest, your jaw, your mouth.
"Yes, ma'am," you say, voice steady, deeper than it used to be. "Professor Sharma."
"Please. Ananya." She smiles, slow and knowing. "I'm supervising some freshman projects this semester. You look… promising." The word drips with double meaning. Her eyes drop again—briefly, deliberately—to the front of your jeans, where the thick ridge of your erection is impossible to hide. She doesn't flinch. If anything, her tongue touches her lower lip.
Your cock throbs visibly. You don't bother hiding it anymore.
"I could use some guidance," you say. "Privately."
Her breath catches—just slightly. Then she leans in, voice barely above a whisper, warm against your ear. "My office. Third floor, CS building. Twenty minutes. Don't be late."
She turns and walks away, hips swaying, saree whispering against her thighs. Every male eye in the vicinity follows her. Yours burn.
Your friends explode the second she's gone.
"Yaar, what the fuck was that?"
"Did she just—?"
"Bhai, you're glowing again, but like… radioactive."
You just smile, finish your chai in one swallow, and stand. "Got a meeting."
The walk to the CS building is torture. Your cock is rock-hard, straining, every step rubbing the head against damp fabric. The December sun is warm, but you're burning hotter. You take the stairs two at a time, pulse hammering.
Her office door is ajar. You push it open.
She's waiting.
The blinds are half-drawn, afternoon light striping across her desk. She's removed her pallu entirely—saree still draped, but now the blouse is fully exposed, breasts heaving, nipples hard and dark against black fabric. She's leaning back against the desk, thighs parted just enough for the silk to stretch tight over her mound.
"Lock the door," she says.
You do.
Then you're on her.
Your mouth crashes into hers—hungry, claiming. She moans into it, hands fisting your shirt, pulling you closer. You taste lipstick and coffee and raw want. Your hands go to her breasts immediately—heavy, soft, spilling over your palms even through fabric. You squeeze hard; she gasps, arching into you.
"Fuck, you're big everywhere," she breathes against your lips, one hand sliding down to cup the thick bulge in your jeans. She strokes once, twice, thumb pressing over the wet spot. "I saw it in the cafeteria. Couldn't stop thinking about how you'd feel inside me."
You growl, spin her around, bend her over the desk. Papers scatter. You yank her saree up in fistfuls, exposing thick, smooth thighs, then the tiny black thong bisecting the most perfect ass you've ever seen—round, plush, begging for marks. You bring your palm down hard. Once. Twice. The slap echoes; her flesh jiggles, blooms pink.
She cries out, pushing back. "Again."
You spank her until she's trembling, until the thong is soaked through, the fabric clinging to swollen pussy lips. You rip it aside—literally tear it—and spread her open. She's dripping, pink and glistening, clit swollen, entrance clenching around nothing.
You drop to your knees, bury your face between her thighs. She tastes like salt and sweet musk, intoxicating. Your tongue dives in, lapping deep, then circling her clit in tight, relentless strokes. She sobs, fingers tangling in your hair, grinding back against your mouth.
"Right there—oh god—don't stop—"
You don't. You suck her clit hard, slide two fingers inside her tight heat, curl them. She comes with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around your head, juices flooding your tongue. You keep going, overstimulating her until she's shaking, begging, a second orgasm crashing through her so hard she squirts—a hot gush against your chin.
You stand, free your cock. It springs out thick and veined, head angry purple, precum dripping in strings. She looks back over her shoulder, eyes glazed.
"Fuck me. Now. Fill me up."
You grip her hips—hard enough to bruise—and drive in to the hilt in one thrust.
She screams into her forearm, walls fluttering madly around your length, so tight it's almost painful. You don't give her time to adjust. You pull back and slam in again, again, setting a brutal pace. The desk rattles. Wet slaps fill the room, mingled with her broken moans and your low grunts.
You wrap her long hair around your fist, pull her head back, choke her lightly with your other hand—fingers around her throat, feeling her pulse race. "Take it," you growl. "Take every inch like the greedy little professor slut you are."
"Yes—yes—harder—"
You oblige. You fuck her until she comes again, pussy spasming, milking you. Until tears streak her kohl. Until she's babbling—please, breed me, pump me full, want your cum so deep—
You spin her around, lift her onto the desk, spread her legs wide. Her saree is bunched around her waist now, blouse ripped open, breasts bouncing free—heavy, dark nipples begging. You suck one into your mouth, bite, while pounding into her. She claws your back, heels digging into your ass, urging you deeper.
You feel the edge approaching—but you don't fall. The system's stamina holds you there, relentless. You pull out, flip her onto her stomach again, spread her ass cheeks. She tenses, then relaxes as you press a thumb into her tight rear entrance, working it slowly while sliding back into her pussy.
"One day," you promise darkly, "I'm taking this too."
She whimpers, pushes back.
You fuck her through three more orgasms—each one harder, wetter, her voice breaking into sobs of overstimulation. Finally, when she's limp and trembling, you let go. You bury yourself deep, groan long and low, and flood her. Pulse after pulse of thick, hot cum, painting her walls, filling her until it leaks out around your cock.
You stay inside her, both of you panting. Her inner muscles flutter weakly, aftershocks. You lean down, kiss the nape of her neck.
"Good girl," you murmur. "Such a perfect little cumslut for me."
She shivers, clenches around you again.
You pull out slowly, watch your seed drip from her swollen, well-fucked pussy onto the desk. She stays bent over, breathing hard, utterly spent.
You tuck yourself away, adjust your clothes. She finally straightens, legs shaky, saree a glorious mess. Her eyes are soft, dazed, possessive.
"This isn't a one-time thing, Arjun."
You smile, slow and dangerous.
"I know."