Hello, my lovely readers, thank you so much for all your kind words and constant support. Your comments keep me going, and a special thank you to XIS for sharing my stories with such love.
Iâm working on a new fictional series, and below is Part One of the journey. Itâs intense, a bit twisted, and just the beginning.
Do give it a read, share your thoughts, and feel free to suggest how you think Part 2 should unfold. I’d love to hear your take. [email protected]
It was the year 2082. The world hadn’t changed much socially – cities were still crowded, and the gap between rich and poor had only widened. But technology had leapt beyond comprehension. Artificial intelligence had rewritten how people lived, worked, and even slept.
One of the most coveted breakthroughs was a neural interface known as the DreamScribe. It wasnât just a gadget. It was a portal into your subconscious, recording your dreams in high definition, letting you revisit them and, if you dared, share them.
Vikram had heard about it years ago. Reading endless threads on forums, he scrolled through after his late-night call centre shifts. A middle-class guy with a techie brain. Heâd always been fascinated by things just outside his financial reach.
Married to Ranjita, who loved him deeply – or at least said she did – their life was routine. Comfortable. Predictable. Sex was the one department where Vikram felt he truly delivered, and maybe thatâs why Ranjita chose him.
She never said it aloud. But he always sensed that physical satisfaction had sealed their love marriage. Still, Vikram dreamed bigger. Ranjita wanted savings. Vikram wanted the DreamScribe.
So, when he unexpectedly got a project bonus, he sold his beloved bike, pooled the cash, and placed the order. The day it arrived, he stared at the sleek packaging like a kid holding his first gaming console.
He wasnât interested in lucid dreaming or mental productivity. His mind buzzed with more primal ideas. Fantasies heâd buried for years. Faces heâd watched on screen, now potentially within reach.
That night, he lay on the bed, strapping on the device with shaking hands. The room was dim, cool, and quiet. He thought about which actress to summon in his dream first, cycling through faces from old movies and newer OTT thrillers.
But no matter how much he tried to drift into sleep, his excitement betrayed him. His mind was racing too fast, his pulse too loud. Morning came, and the dream never arrived. Disappointed but not disheartened, he tried again the next day.
He slept deeply this time. But when he played the recording, it was just a blur of ordinary visuals – his old school, his boss shouting, some train platform. Nothing erotic, nothing even memorable. But then came night three, and everything changed.
Day three came with a different kind of energy. Vikram had skipped his usual routine. He didnât open his work laptop, scroll his phone, or even glance at the news. Today was for something else. Something he had waited for.
This time, he had fallen asleep with the DreamScribe gently nestled at his neural point (just above his ear). When the morning sun cracked through the curtains, he woke up hard, flushed, and breathless. He didnât remember all the details, but he knew who had visited him.
Mrs. Deepika.
His 11th-grade English teacher. Married. 34. The woman who had unknowingly ruined his teenage mind with her elegance. The crisp sarees, her no-nonsense tone, and the occasional glance over her made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
She wasnât the kind of woman youâd confess a crush to – she was the kind you fantasised about silently and never admitted to anyone. And now he had seen her again. Not in reality, but somewhere better. A version his mind had summoned.
He tried to hold on to the fragments – the smell of old books, her voice saying something softly near his ear. But most of the dream had faded. Only the heat lingered. A wicked heat.
As soon as he stirred awake and those fragments flickered in his mind, curiosity kicked in. He didnât wait. The first thing he did – before brushing his teeth, before breakfast – was to draft a quick mail, applying for leave from his shift. He just had to know what his mind had cooked up last night.
Ranjita left for work after a quick goodbye, unaware of the storm inside him. As the door clicked shut behind her, Vikram locked it. He turned off the lights and sat down at his laptop. His hands trembled a little-not out of fear, but anticipation.
He pulled the curtains tight. Then, he slid into his chair, opened the laptop, and clicked on the folder labelled âPrivate – Sync_2075â. Inside it, the DreamScribe recording from last night waited, blinking softly like a treasure chest.
He double-clicked it. The screen went black for a second. Then it started playing. A soft flicker. Dust floating mid-air. A familiar corridor.
The setting was unmistakable – his old school. But it was empty, unnervingly so. The morning sunlight streamed through the grilled windows as he walked past classroom doors that echoed with faint memories. No students, no chatter. Just the thudding sound of his footsteps.
He paused near a door with a rectangular mirror panel. And there he was – 28-year-old Vikram – reflected in his adult form. Dressed in a school uniform, his tie askew. The image was absurd, but in the logic of dreams, it made perfect sense.
He opened the classroom door slowly. Inside, students were already seated, their faces down in textbooks, perfectly still, like frozen mannequins in mid-lesson. A wave of strange familiarity swept over him. Then she appeared.
Mrs. Deepika.
Still 34. Still as stunning as he remembered from his teenage years – draped in a soft cotton saree, hair pinned neatly, glasses perched low on her nose. She looked up, eyes locking onto his, the moment he stepped in.
Without missing a beat, she pointed to the only empty bench near the window. âTake your seat quietly, Vikram,â she said, as if heâd always belonged there.
He obeyed without question, his legs carrying him toward the bench as if guided by something stronger than will. Moments later, she walked toward him, her heels silent on the tiled floor. Vikram sat frozen, breath shallow, heart pounding in anticipation.
With a calm grace, Mrs. Deepika lowered herself next to him, their shoulders nearly touching. âItâs good that you stayed today, Vikram,â she said, her voice soft but deliberate.
He blinked. Stayed? The classroom was full when he walked in. Confused, he turned around. Only to watch the students slowly begin to fade away, one by one, like dust caught in the wind. Like some silent Thanos snap. Within seconds, he and Mrs. Deepika were the only ones left in the room.
Her words lingered in the air – half academic, half something else entirely. She turned slightly, her eyes scanning his face, lips parted just slightly – as if she was reading more than just answers.
She paused, running a finger down her checklist, seemingly lost in thought. Then, she peered back at him – her eyes, so clear brown, held a spark that made his breath hitch, ” You know, Vikram, I’ve always known how much you value your education. But I think there’s something else distracting you. ”
Slowly, she reached out and touched his tie, the fabric loosely knotted against his chest. Her finger traced down the length of the tie, stopping dangerously close to his waist. He swallowed hard, trying to hide his nervousness.
This was a game, one he wasn’t sure how to play, but he didn’t want it to end. She leaned in, her voice low as she said, “Let’s make a deal, Vikram. If you want to pass the test, you’ll have to do something for me.” He felt a shiver run through him, his blood rushing in his ears.
Her finger teased at the knot, her lips brushing against his ear, barely touching, whispering, “Remove your tie, Vikram. Slowly.” He could feel his body reacting immediately to her closeness, his pulse thrumming in his groin. With a trembling hand, he reached up to untie the knot.
His hand shook as he tugged at the knot, feeling her gaze burning into him, her proximity intoxicating, his senses heightened. Once undone, he slid the tie off, and she took it from his hand, a faint smile playing on her lips.
She stood up, holding the tie like a rope in her hand, and walked back to her desk at the front of the class. She hung his tie on the chair’s backrest, a languid act made sensual by the movement of her bare shoulders, the slight sway of her hips.
Then, she sat on her desk, the wooden table creaking as she sat on the edge. She lowered herself down, placing her hands next to her thighs, leaning back ever-so-slightly to give him a clear view of her long legs tucked modestly beneath her cotton saree.
With a slight curve of her finger, she beckoned him. He moved like a string puppet, drawn toward her almost magnetically. When he reached her desk, she glanced upward at him, tipping her head. He saw her eyes behind smooth-rimmed glasses.
Everything in her gaze seemed to invite him closer. Closer still. “I… I thought you wanted me to do something for you,” Vikram stammered, the air thick between them.
“Yes, I did,” she replied, her voice steady yet charged with a new energy. “Tit for tat, Vikram. For every favour, a reward. Now sit.” She patted the space at the foot of the table. Hesitantly, Vikram lowered himself, his knees grazing the floor.
“Good,” she whispered, extending her right leg over his shoulder, offering him her sole. “Oh, no messing around. Nails and all. Feel how tense I am.”
Vikram tentatively reached out, wrapping his hands around her delicate ankle, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath his fingers. He guided her direction, urging her to place the ball of her foot against his chest. “Like that,” she murmured, as her heel gently pressed against him.
Vikram began gently, applying pressure along the arch of her foot. She shifted slightly, flexing her calf muscles, in invitation. With each squeeze, each caress, he could feel the tension slowly unravelling. Her gaze remained locked onto his through her elongated lashes, the distinction between their roles carefully defined.
“Use both hands,” she commanded softly. “Work your way up to my calf. Slowly.”
Vikram’s long fingers trailed up her smooth skin, the pressure just right to ease her muscles. “Hmm…,” she purred, her foot sliding along his chest as heat shrouded her face. She watched him, his eyes darkening as he became aware of her arousal, of the way he held her.
His touch felt good, so darn good. Her muscles relaxed, her breath deepened, all under his careful ministry. Vikram’s hands moved from her calf to her knee, all the while keeping his gaze on Mrs. Deepika.
A silent permission was exchanged between them as he slid his palms higher, pushing her petticoat up to reveal her lower thighs. She lifted her hips slightly, helping him, her breath hitching subtly. His hands met the soft skin of her inner thighs.
His hands glided up to caress her inner thighs, his thumbs reaching out towards the panel of gathered fabric that revealed just enough to entice, yet shielded her modesty. Her breath hitched again, this time more audibly, as he left a trail of fiery touches there.
“Vikram,” She uttered his name like it was her only anchor. “Here, yes… just there…” Her voice had become throaty, almost unrecognisable.
Vikram, overcome with desire, decided to abandon all pretence. With each squeeze on her calf, his gaze traced up her legs, lingering at the meeting of her hem and milky skin. He could sense her getting flushed, her legs trembling, the quiet whimpers indicating her growing excitement.
He couldn’t resist any longer. Leaning in, he replaced his fingers with his lips, pressing a soft, hot kiss on her calf. Vikram’s breath teased her skin. Mrs. Deepika, free from her inhibitions, silently begged him for more.
Emboldened, Vikram dropped a trail of kisses up to her knee, each one hungrier than the last, breathing her in with each press of his lips to her soft, warm skin. Then, he tasted her, his tongue tracing the back of her knee. Zinging jolts of pleasure up her thigh.
Vikram’s tongue was a fever, wiping out everything in its path. His mouth moved over her trembling skin, inciting more warmth, more moans. He was blindingly aware of her hands on his head. Her fingers laced through his hair, guiding him, urging him on.
With each curl of her fingers, his appetite grew. Her thighs betrayed her want for him, her petticoat riding high, her secret places exposed.
Mrs. Deepika’s fingers tightened in his hair. “Get up here, Vikram,” she commanded, her voice laced with desire. He looked up, meeting her smouldering gaze, her nipples evident through her blouse. She grabbed his shirt, yanking him between her open legs.
Her lips found his, hungry and demanding. His body snuggled against hers, his heart pounding against her chest. Her hips lifted off the desk as she pulled him close, her body rubbing against him through layers of clothing.
“I want your hands on me,” she rasped, looping her arms around his neck. “On my breasts, on my hips…” With a feral growl, Vikram obliged, trailing his hands up her curves and cupping her pillowy breasts with a suggestive squeeze.
His hands moved deftly, teased by the soft fabric hugging her generous silhouette. The sensation of cotton and lace under his fingers, the full, tender feeling of her mounds, led him to rub harder, pulling at her small nipples beneath the blouse.
Her soft lips caught him in a dizzying kiss, tongue darting between his teeth, exploring his mouth greedily. In the abyss of the dim room, Vikram’s breath fogged the monitor as he watched his laptop. His mind splintered between reality and the dream, as he saw her hands slide her blouse off.
Her sleek brown body revealed beneath, the lacy cups of her lingerie clutched against full breasts as she pressed her legs around his waist. Blindly, his hands traced the waistband of his trousers.
His trousers puddled around his ankles as he lunged forward, discarding any modesty. His thick length sprang forward, freed from its constraints, throbbing with need. He clutched his manhood, squeezing in anticipation as he watched his avatar’s hands slide into the creamy skin of her hips.
The screen glowed in the dark room, the bump and grind at the desk consuming his attention. The screen ajar, desire pulsed through Vikram as he watched the avatar of his past teacher, Mrs. Deepika, writhing in the seat of his high school classroom.
Being unable to stop now, he grips harder and imagines touching the body he observes on screen with the stroke of his hand.
Suddenly, the room filled with light, breaking Vikram’s spell. Ranjita stood at the entrance, eyes wide, fisting the door handle. “Vikram?” She gasped, her gaze shifting between his naked lap and the risquĂ© image on the computer screen.
He froze, mid-stroke, unsure of what to say. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked away, leaving him and his throbbing erection exposed. “Ranjita… I…”
“What the hell is this, Vikram?” Ranjita’s tone cracked through the cloud, which was Vikram’s dream. He cleared his throat, stammering, “Ranjita… It’s not what it looks like. I-I can explain.” As he stuttered his way through an apology, her expression changed: from shock to hurt to anger.
His dick hung heavy and stiff in his hand. He knew now was not the time to try to explain.
Ranjita’s eyes burned with anger, her voice sharp as a heated knife. “Explain? You are watching perverted fantasies about your teacher! I cannot believe this!” She stormed inside, her lantern reflection bouncing around the walls.
Vikram, still dumbfounded, his hand still around his thing, finally found his voice, “Ranjita, it is just… just a one-time thing. I was just exploring some fantasies.”
“Exploring fantasies?”
Thatâs the end of Part 1. Vikramâs story has just begun, and things are only going to get more twisted. Part 2 is coming soon. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share your thoughts or how youâd shape the next part.