The autorickshaw rattled through the evening traffic, its engine coughing like a chain-smoker. I sat in the back, my thick thighs sticking to the vinyl seat, the dupatta I'd draped over my chest doing absolutely nothing to hide what I'd done to myself.

What I'd become.

My phone screen lit up with a WhatsApp message from Ma: "When will you be back? I made aloo paratha."

I typed back: "Late. Sir said he'll cover two chapters today. Don't wait up."

Lie number one.

The second lie was the textbook in my lap, the one I'd told Ma I needed for the extra class. The one I hadn't opened once during the entire ride.

The third lie was my face.

I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror as the rickshaw slowed at a signal. Dark kohl lined my eyes, thick and dramatic, the kind Ma would call "cheap" if she saw it. My lips were painted a shade of red I'd bought from the roadside cosmetic stall—not the expensive kind the pretty thin girls in my class used, but the kind that promised "Cherry Bomb" on the label and smelled faintly of chemicals.

Cherry Bomb.

That's what I wanted to be tonight.

Not Srishti.

Not the fat girl.

Not the one whose classmates whispered "motu" when she walked past, whose aunties at family functions pinched her cheeks and said "thoda diet karo, beta" with that fake-sweet smile.

I wanted to be something else entirely.

Someone else entirely.

---

Professor Jay's apartment was in a quiet lane behind the coaching center, a modest ground-floor flat with a small garden patch where he grew tomatoes and coriander. I'd seen it once before, when I'd dropped off a late assignment last month. He'd been wearing a simple kurta then, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly disheveled, reading glasses perched on his nose.

I'd gone home and touched myself thinking about those glasses.

About those hands.

About what they'd feel like on my body.

"Ruk jaana," I told the rickshaw driver, my voice steadier than my heart. "Drop me at the next gate."

I paid him and stepped out, the evening air hitting my bare arms. The kurti I'd chosen was cut lower than anything I owned, a deep maroon that matched my lipstick, the fabric straining over my breasts in a way that made me feel both ashamed and electric. Jeans that hugged my heavy thighs, hips, waist—every curve I'd been taught to hide now on display.

Every step toward his door felt like walking underwater. Slow. Pressurized. The world muffled except for the blood pounding in my ears.

I'd imagined this moment so many times.

In class, when he'd lean over my desk to check my notebook, his scent—sandalwood and Old Spice—filling my lungs.

At night, under my blankets, one hand between my legs while I replayed his voice: "Excellent, Srishti. You're improving."

In the shower, the water beating down on my shoulders while I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined his hands instead.

And now here I was.

At his door.

At 7:42 PM on a Thursday.

My kurti too low. My lips too red. My textbooks clutched to my chest like a shield.

I rang the bell.

---

The door opened, and there he was.

Professor Jayesh Kumar. Forty-three years old. Divorced, or so the rumors said. Physics professor with a reputation for being strict, exacting, the kind of teacher who didn't tolerate nonsense in his classroom.

Tonight he wore a simple white t-shirt and track pants, his hair still damp from what I guessed was a recent shower. Reading glasses. Bare feet.

"Ah, Srishti. Come in, come in."

His voice was exactly the same as in class. Calm. Professional. As if there was nothing strange about a student showing up at his house after dark dressed like a cheap knockoff of a Bollywood item girl.

"Thank you, sir." I stepped inside, my sandals clicking on the marble floor. The living room was neat, sparse—a bookshelf crammed with physics journals and reference texts, a faded sofa, a small puja shelf in the corner with a framed picture of Saraswati. The goddess of knowledge.

Ironic.

"We'll study in the dining room," he said, gesturing. "More space to spread out your notes."

I followed him, hyperaware of how my body moved, how my thighs rubbed together as I walked, how my breasts jiggled even inside the too-tight bra I'd worn. Did he notice? Did he care?

"Sit. Show me where you're struggling."

I settled into the chair across from him, the dining table between us, and opened my textbook. The words blurred. Chapter 8: Electromagnetic Induction. I'd read it three times but remembered nothing.

"I... I'm having trouble with the numericals," I managed. "The ones with the flux calculations."

He nodded, pulling his glasses down from his forehead. "Understandable. It's a conceptual leap. Let's start from the basics—what is magnetic flux?"

I should have known the answer. I'd crammed it a hundred times.

But his forearms were bare. And there was a vein that ran from his wrist to his elbow, blue against brown skin, and I couldn't stop staring at it.

"Srishti?"

"Sorry, sir. I'm just—I'm a little nervous."

"No need to be nervous. It's just physics." He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "It won't bite."

But I want you to bite me.

The thought surfaced unbidden, and I felt my cheeks flush.

"Tell me what you know," he continued. "Even if it's wrong. We'll build from there."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

His lips. They were slightly chapped—he'd been biting them, maybe, while reading. What would they feel like against my neck? Against my—

"Srishti."

I blinked. "Yes, sir?"

"Where are you right now?" His voice was sharper now, the classroom voice. "Your body is here, but your mind is somewhere else entirely."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll focus. I promise."

"Magnetic flux." He tapped the textbook. "Definition. Go."

"The... the number of magnetic field lines passing through a given area."

"Good. Formula?"

I stared at his hands.

"Srishti."

The silence stretched. He took off his glasses and set them on the table.

"I can't do this," he said quietly.

My heart stopped. "What?"

"This one-on-one session. I can't do it if you're not present." He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I'm taking time out of my evening. You've traveled all the way here. And for what? You haven't heard a word I've said for the last ten minutes."

"Sir, please—"

"I'm not angry, Srishti. I'm just stating facts." His eyes held mine. "If you're not going to pay attention, there's no point continuing."

The word "pay" hit me like a slap.

Pay.

Pay attention.

Pay for the classes.

"I want to continue," I said, and my voice came out wrong—too high, too desperate. "Please, sir. Please give me another chance. I'll pay attention. I swear."

He studied me for a long moment. "The thing is, Srishti, these extra sessions—they're beyond my regular hours. I usually charge for them."

"I know. I know, sir." I swallowed. "I just... I can't... Ma doesn't know I'm here. She thinks you're doing this for free. And we can't afford—"

"Then I'm sorry." He started to stand. "But I can't continue."

"Wait."

The word hung in the air between us.

I stood up too, my chair scraping against the floor. His gaze flickered down—just for an instant—to my chest, where my kurti had slipped lower, showing the curve of my breasts, the deep valley between them.

"I can pay you," I said. "In other ways."

His expression didn't change. But something shifted in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry.

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, I walked around the table. My legs were shaking. My whole body was shaking. But I kept moving until I was standing right in front of him, close enough to smell him—sandalwood, Old Spice.

Then I reached down.

And I pressed my palm against the front of his track pants.

---

The sound he made was somewhere between a gasp and a growl. Low in his throat. Guttural. His cock twitched against my hand, and even through the fabric, I could feel the heat of it, the sheer size of it.

"So that's what this is," he said, and his voice had changed. Dropped. Become something rougher, something that vibrated in his chest. "You dressed up like a little whore, came to my house, pretended to need tutoring... all for this?"

"Sir—"

"Shut up." He grabbed my wrist, his fingers encircling it completely, his grip just shy of painful. "You want to pay me with your body? Is that it?"

I couldn't breathe. "Yes."

"Say it properly."

"I want to pay you with my body, sir."

"With what parts of your body?"

My mouth was dry. "My... my mouth. My pussy. My... my ass. Whatever you want."

He laughed. It wasn't a kind laugh. "Whatever I want? You think you know what you're offering, you silly little slut?" He stood up, his hand still clamped around my wrist, and suddenly he was towering over me. I felt small. I felt—God help me—I felt exactly what I'd been dreaming of. "I don't fuck like other men, Srishti. When I use someone, I use them for hours. I use them until they cry. Until they beg me to stop. Is that what you want?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is it?" He yanked me closer, so my breasts pressed against his chest, so I had to crane my neck to look up at him. "You're an overweight nineteen-year-old who can't even pass physics. What makes you think I'd want to fuck you?"

The words hit me like a physical blow.

And I felt myself get wet.

"I'll be good," I whispered. "Please, sir. Please use me. Please degrade me. Please—"

He kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was a punishment. His mouth crushed against mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, tasting, claiming. One hand tangled in my hair and yanked my head back, exposing my throat, and then his mouth was on my neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks that I'd have to hide from Ma tomorrow.

"On your knees," he growled against my skin. "Now."

I dropped like a stone.

The marble floor was cold beneath my knees. His track pants were at eye level, and I could see the shape of him straining against the fabric, a thick ridge that ran diagonally across his thigh.

"Take it out."

My hands were trembling so hard I could barely grip the waistband. I tugged his pants down, and his cock sprang free, and for a moment I just stared.

It takes two hands.

The thought floated through my mind, detached, almost clinical. He was thick—God, he was so thick—with a curve that made his cock angle slightly upward, the head flushed a deep purple-brown, veins running along the shaft like rivers on a map. His balls hung heavy beneath, drawn tight against his body.

"Scared?" He fisted a hand in my hair, twisting until my scalp burned. "You should be."

"No." I licked my lips. My Cherry Bomb lips. "I'm not scared."

"Then suck it, you fat little cocksucker."

I wrapped both hands around his shaft—and even then, my fingers didn't meet around his girth—and brought the tip to my mouth.

The first touch of him against my lips was electric.

I opened wide, wider than I'd ever opened for anything, and took the head inside. The taste of him—salt, skin, something faintly bitter—flooded my tongue. My jaw already ached. I'd barely gotten the tip in.

"Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You can't even fit half of it in your mouth. What a useless whore."

I pushed further.

My lips stretched around his shaft, the skin pulling tight. He hit the back of my throat, and I gagged—a wet, choking sound that made him groan and tighten his grip in my hair.

"That's it. Choke on it. Choke on my cock like the pathetic little slut you are."

Tears were already forming in the corners of my eyes. My mascara—the cheap Lakmé mascara I'd carefully applied—was about to be destroyed. I didn't care. I wanted it. I wanted him to ruin me.

I pulled back, sucking hard, my cheeks hollowing, and then pushed forward again, taking him deeper this time. My throat convulsed around the intrusion, trying to reject him, but I forced myself to stay, to breathe through my nose, to relax.

"There you go." His voice softened, just slightly. "That's a good girl. That's a good little cocksucker."

The praise hit me like a drug.

I moaned around his cock, the vibration making him hiss, and started to move. Up and down. Up and down. Finding a rhythm. My hands worked the base of his shaft, twisting, squeezing, while my mouth focused on the top half. Saliva dripped down my chin, smearing my lipstick, and when I pulled back for air, I saw the red smears I'd left on his skin.

Cherry Bomb.

"You're marking me," he said, looking down at the lipstick stains. "You're marking your professor's cock with your cheap whore lipstick." He slapped my cheek—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me gasp. "You like that, don't you? You like being my dirty little slut?"

"Yes." My voice was wrecked already, hoarse. "Yes, sir. I love it. Please don't stop."

"Oh, I'm not stopping." He grabbed his cock at the base and slapped it against my cheek, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum and smeared lipstick. "Open your mouth. Wider this time."

I obeyed.

He thrust in—not gently, not gradually—in one brutal push that buried half his length in my throat. I gagged again, violently, my hands flying up to grip his thighs, but he didn't pull back. He held me there, my nose pressed against his pubic hair, my throat working uselessly around his cock, my vision swimming with tears.

"Breathe," he commanded. "Breathe through your nose, you stupid whore. I'm not going to let you pass out. Not yet."

I breathed.

And he started to fuck my face.

---

For half an hour, he used my mouth.

Half an hour of his cock pistoning in and out of my throat, of my jaw screaming in protest, of drool and pre-cum and the remnants of Cherry Bomb lipstick coating my chin and neck. Half an hour of his voice above me, a constant stream of degradation and praise that left me dizzy, confused, desperate for more.

"You were born for this, you know that? Born on your knees with a cock in your mouth."

Thrust.

"Look at those tits. Those fat, heavy tits. I'm going to fuck them next time."

Thrust.

"Fucking whore. Fucking desperate fat slut. Coming to your professor's house dressed like a fifty-rupee prostitute."

Thrust.

"But you're my whore now. Aren't you? Say it. Say you're mine."

I pulled off just long enough to gasp, "I'm yours, sir. I'm your whore."

Then he was back in my throat, and I was crying—real tears, not just the reflex tears of gagging—and my mascara was running down my cheeks in black rivers, and my lips were swollen and raw, and I had never been happier in my entire life.

"You're crying," he observed, and there was something almost tender in his voice. "Are you hurt, little one?"

"No, sir." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, smearing mascara across my knuckles. "I'm just... I'm so happy. I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you for so long."

"Then take your reward."

He pulled me off his cock by my hair and forced my head back. His other hand moved on his shaft, stroking fast, the slick sounds filling the room.

"Open your mouth," he said. "Stick out your tongue. I want to see where I'm putting my cum."

I did as I was told.

I knelt there, mouth open, tongue extended, tears and mascara and lipstick smeared across my face, and I looked up at him with eyes that must have been wild with need.

"Good girl," he said. "Good fucking girl. You're so pretty like this. So pretty with my cock on your tongue. Who would have thought the fat girl from eleventh standard could be so beautiful?"

The word hit me like lightning.

Beautiful.

He thought I was beautiful.

"Here it comes," he grunted. "Take it. Take all of it."

His cock pulsed, and the first rope of cum hit my tongue—hot, salty, thick. Then another, splashing against the roof of my mouth. Then another, overflowing my lips and dripping down my chin.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Look at me and swallow."

I held his gaze.

I closed my mouth.

And I swallowed every drop.

---

When it was over, he pulled me to my feet. My knees ached from the marble floor. My jaw throbbed. My throat felt raw, bruised, absolutely demolished.

"Do you want water?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

He brought me a glass from the kitchen and watched me drink it, his eyes tracing the line of my throat as I swallowed. When the glass was empty, he took it from my hands and set it aside.

"You did well," he said. "Better than I expected."

"Thank you, sir."

"I meant what I said." His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb wiping away a smear of mascara. "You're beautiful. Those thick thighs. Those heavy breasts. Those curves." His hand slid down, over my neck, my shoulder, until it rested on my hip, squeezing the soft flesh there. "I've been looking at you in class for months. You think I didn't notice what you were wearing tonight? You think I didn't notice you looking at me?"

My heart stuttered. "You... you knew?"

"I'm not blind, Srishti. I'm just patient." His fingers dug into my hip, hard enough to bruise. "Now let me see the rest of you."

I stripped for him, right there in the dining room. Kurti first, then jeans, then bra, then panties. The clothes pooled at my feet like a shed skin.

"Turn around."

I turned.

He made a sound—something between a groan and a growl. His hand slid over my stomach, cupping the soft swell of it, then down to my thighs. He squeezed the flesh there, hard, watching it dimple under his fingers.

"These thighs," he murmured. "Do you know how many times I've imagined them wrapped around my head?"

"No, sir."

"And this ass." Both hands now, gripping my cheeks, spreading them apart. "I'm going to fuck this tomorrow. I'm going to fuck it until you can't walk straight."

I whimpered.

"What about your pussy?" His hand slid around to cup my cunt, one finger pressing between my lips, finding me wet and swollen and desperate. "I'm going to fuck this too. And you're going to take it. All of it. For hours. Until you're crying and begging me to stop."

"Please," I breathed. "Please, sir. Please fuck me now."

He pulled his hand away.

"No."

I spun around, shocked. "But—"

"Not tonight." His smile was cruel and beautiful and absolutely devastating. "Tonight was just your mouth. A sample. Tomorrow, I'll take the rest of you."

"But I—"

"You'll go home," he said, cutting me off. "You'll touch yourself thinking about what I'm going to do to you. You'll come imagining my cock in your pussy, your ass, your throat. And then tomorrow, when you come back, I'll make you my personal whore."

I was trembling. With frustration. With need. With the overwhelming ache between my legs that he'd refused to satisfy.

"Will you... will you make me the topper, sir?" The question came out small, almost pathetic.

He laughed. "I'll do better than that. I'll make you mine. Now get dressed and go home."

I pulled on my clothes with shaking hands. My panties were soaked. My bra was twisted. My kurti was probably on inside-out. I didn't care.

At the door, he caught my chin and tilted my face up.

"You asked me something, earlier," he said. "You asked if I liked you. My overweight slut."

I nodded, unable to speak.

"I love your thick thighs," he said, counting on his fingers. "I love your jiggly tits. I love your round stomach. And tomorrow, I'm going to love your tight little pussy." He leaned in and kissed me—soft this time, almost sweet. "Now go."

I stumbled out into the night air.

The autorickshaw was still waiting at the gate, as if it had known all along how this would end.

As I climbed into the back seat, my body aching in places I hadn't known could ache, my lips still tasting of his cum, my cunt throbbing with unfulfilled need, I realized something.

He'd called me beautiful.

He'd called me his.

And tomorrow, he was going to fuck me.

The rickshaw pulled away from the curb, and I pressed my thighs together, feeling the wet heat between them, and smiled.