In the bustling corridors of St. Xavier’s College in Mumbai, Professor Aarav Sharma was a sight to behold. At 35, with his chiseled jaw, salt-and-pepper hair, and a physique honed from weekend treks in the Sahyadri hills, he commanded attention in his crisp white shirts and tailored trousers. He taught English Literature, his deep voice weaving magic through Shakespeare and Tagore. But it was his intense gaze that made female students whisper.
Priya Mehta, a 20-year-old final-year student, was one of them. With her long, raven-black hair cascading down her back, almond-shaped eyes framed by kohl, and curves that filled out her salwar kameez just right, she was the epitome of innocent allure. She sat in the front row, her notebook filled not just with notes, but doodles of his name intertwined with hearts. Priya had a crush that burned like monsoon heat—fierce and unrelenting.
It started innocently enough. During a seminar on “Romeo and Juliet,” Priya lingered after class. “Sir, I don’t understand the passion in their forbidden love,” she said, her voice soft, biting her lower lip—a habit that drove Aarav wild.
He smiled, leaning against his desk. “Passion isn’t just words, Priya. It’s in the stolen glances, the brush of hands.” As he spoke, his eyes locked on hers, and she felt a spark. She stepped closer, her dupatta slipping slightly, revealing the swell of her breasts under her kameez.
“Show me, sir,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing like ripe mangoes.
Aarav’s breath hitched. The college was emptying, the monsoon rain pattering outside. He should stop this. But her scent—jasmine mixed with youthful desire—clouded his judgment. “This is dangerous,” he murmured, but his hand reached out, tracing her cheek.
Seduction Unfolds
That evening, in the dimly lit staff room, Priya “accidentally” bumped into him while fetching books. “Sorry, sir,” she giggled, pressing against him longer than necessary. Her soft breasts brushed his chest, and she felt his hardness stir.
“Priya, you’re playing with fire,” he warned, but his voice was husky.
“I like the heat,” she replied boldly, her fingers grazing his thigh under the table as they discussed her assignment. She wore a tight churidar that hugged her hips, and when she bent to pick up a pen, her ass curved invitingly. Aarav’s eyes devoured her.
Over the next weeks, seduction became their secret game. In empty classrooms, she’d whisper, “Sir, your voice makes me wet.” He’d respond by slipping notes into her bag: “Imagine my hands on you.” One afternoon, during a college fest prep, she cornered him in the storeroom. The air was thick with the scent of old books and rain-soaked earth.
“Sir, teach me more than literature,” she said, unbuttoning her kameez slowly, revealing a lacy black bra that cupped her full, dusky breasts. Her nipples hardened under his gaze.
Aarav pulled her close, his lips crashing onto hers. Their kiss was hungry—tongues dancing like forbidden lovers in a Bollywood dream. He tasted her sweetness, mixed with the tang of paan she’d chewed earlier. His hands roamed, squeezing her waist, pulling her against his growing erection.
Foreplay’s Teasing Flames
They moved to his empty office after hours, the door locked, blinds drawn. The room smelled of chai and his cologne—sandalwood and spice.
Priya pushed him onto the chair, straddling him. “I’ve dreamed of this,” she confessed, grinding her hips slowly against his bulge. Her salwar was damp already.
Aarav groaned, his hands sliding under her kameez, unhooking her bra. Her breasts spilled free—round, firm, with dark nipples begging for attention. He cupped them, thumbs circling the peaks. “So beautiful, meri jaan,” he murmured in Hindi, pinching lightly. She arched, moaning, “Sir… harder.”
He obliged, leaning down to suckle one nipple, his tongue flicking like a serpent’s. Priya’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. She reached down, unzipping his pants, freeing his thick, veined cock—hard and throbbing, pre-cum glistening at the tip.
“Touch me,” he commanded. Her small hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly, feeling him pulse. She knelt, her eyes innocent yet wicked, and licked the tip, tasting his saltiness. “Like this, sir?” she asked, taking him deeper into her warm mouth. Aarav’s head fell back, hips bucking gently as she bobbed, her tongue swirling, saliva dripping down his shaft.
He pulled her up before he lost control. “Not yet.” Laying her on the desk, he hiked up her salwar, revealing her panties—soaked through. He peeled them off, inhaling her musky arousal. “You’re dripping for me, Priya.”
His fingers parted her folds, finding her clit swollen and sensitive. He rubbed circles, slow at first, then faster, inserting one finger into her tight, wet pussy. She gasped, “Aarav… yes!” He added another, curling them to hit her G-spot, his thumb on her clit. Her juices coated his hand as she writhed, her hips bucking. “I’m going to come… sir!”
He didn’t stop, sucking her neck, leaving hickeys like badges of ownership. She shattered, her orgasm ripping through her, walls clenching around his fingers, crying out in Hindi, “Bas karo… aur do!”
Deep Sex Moments: Surrender and Ecstasy
Panting, Priya pulled him up. “Fuck me, sir. Deep. Make me yours.”
Aarav positioned her on the desk, her legs spread wide. He rubbed his cock against her slick entrance, teasing. “Beg for it.”
“Please, Aarav… fill me,” she pleaded, her eyes glazed with lust.
He thrust in slowly, inch by inch, her tightness enveloping him like velvet fire. “So tight… meri student,” he growled. She was virgin-like in her grip, but eager, pushing back to take him fully. Bottoming out, he paused, letting her adjust, their bodies joined in taboo bliss.
Then, the rhythm began—deep, powerful strokes. He pulled out almost fully, slamming back in, his balls slapping her ass. Priya’s nails dug into his back, “Harder! Deeper!” The desk creaked under them, papers scattering.
He flipped her onto her stomach, entering from behind. Her ass jiggled with each thrust, his hands gripping her hips. “Look at you, taking your teacher’s cock,” he said, spanking lightly. She moaned, pushing back, her pussy squirting a little with each deep plunge.
Switching to missionary on the floor rug, he hooked her legs over his shoulders, pounding relentlessly. Their eyes locked—love, lust, forbidden fire. “I love you, sir,” she whispered amid gasps.
“I love how you feel around me,” he replied, his thrusts erratic now. She came again, milking him, her walls pulsing. Aarav followed, burying deep, roaring as he filled her with hot spurts of cum, overflowing down her thighs.
They collapsed, sweaty, entwined. Rain pounded outside, mirroring their passion. “This is just the beginning,” Priya smiled.
Aarav kissed her forehead. “Our secret lessons continue.”
In the heart of Mumbai’s chaos, their forbidden love burned brighter than any lecture hall light.