I was a bold guy in my twenties. I ran after girls like how some people run after money. Greedily and without shame. But it was the 80s, when most of the girls in Nehru College ran away any attempt at socializing with guys in the class, let alone going out with them. Everyone dressed conservatively, as if showing some skin were a sin, and the few girls who wore slightly revealing sarees were instructed to wear salwars or long-sleeve sarees that covered the back and belly as much as possible.
So it was strange when Sujata Miss walked into our class in the third year of B.Sc., to teach Biology, wearing semi-transparent half-sarees and sleeveless blouses. Though the saree fully draped over her midriff, we got a full view of her curvaceous stomach and the belly button on that dusky navel. The blouse covered her back like a statement, but she never wore a bra underneath. Some of the first benchers said they saw the areolae and the sleeping nipple when she leaned on the desk to read. We didn't doubt that for a moment as everyone could see her ripe 34-D breasts from the side, straining against the fabric of the blouse, as she walked around the classroom, reading and clearing doubts.
I am an average student at best. At my worst, I had failed two years before entering the college and once in the first year of B.Sc. All my free time went in playing football at the local club or hitting the gym and lifting weights. So it was a shock, even to myself, that I'd overnight turned into a passionate student of Biology from the day Sujata Miss started teaching our class.
"Kamal, I like your drawing of the breast," she said one day, leaning to examine my detailed drawing of the female part, the real thing just centimetres away from my face.
"Thank you, miss." I rushed a peek at that deep cleavage, her breasts heaving inside the tight, paper-thin green blouse she'd worn that day. I openly stared without shame while she marked the parts of the breast with my pencil.
"What is this part?" she asked gently, her lips almost nibbling my ear.
I didn't respond to the question. The blouse only covered half of those heavenly mangoes, and at the edge of the front flap I thought I'd seen the beginning of the areolae. Involuntarily, my cock was erect in its full glory, jutting out a mountain inside the trousers.
"I asked what is this part?" she prodded with the eraser of the pencil at the part that I'd shaded really well.
"The nipple, miss."
"Tell me what you know about the nipple, Kamal."
"Miss, the nipple is a raised region of tissue on the surface of the breast from which milk leaves the breast through lactiferous ducts to feed anyone who suckles at it."
"Why isn't it raised in your diagram? I admire your artwork, but you have to show the stiffened form. Not a bland dark circle."
I don't know what possessed me at that moment to make me blurt out, "Miss, I have not seen a real nipple, and the textbook diagrams are exactly the way I've drawn it."
"Is that so?" She flipped some pages. "I see. Okay, so the nipple can become erect, like the male penis, and eject fluid produced in the mammary glands during lactation."
"Does it need to be stimulated, miss?"
"What do you mean, Kamal?"
"Do the female breasts need to be stimulated like the male penis to produce milk?"
"It can be, Kamal. But it was discharge milk passively as well, unlike the male penis."
I hung my head. "But miss..."
"Yes, Kamal?"
"It says here that the breasts can be stimulated for sexual arousal, which is another common trait it has with the penis."
"That's right. The breast can be squeezed, pressed, stimulated with the lips and tongue, pinched, and even gently bit to pleasure the female. The nipple gets hard during arousal, returning to normal only after a session of passion or loss of interest."
"Thank you for explaining, miss. I've never seen a nipple or the breasts getting pleasured. Please forgive my ignorance."
"That's fine, Kamal. If you have any doubts, come to my office after your classes. I can stay back an hour or more to clear up any questions you have in Biology."
"Okay miss. I will come."
❀
Now, up until this point in my life, I'd never kissed a girl, let alone made love to her. Even in my fantasies, when one hand leisurely turning page after page of a Stardust magazine and the other furiously pulling on the head of my cock, I watched Amitabh Bachchan making love to Zeenat Aman, or Sanjay Dutt sucking Rekha's breasts. But, Sujata Miss was neither as slender and tall like Zeenat nor fit as Rekha. She was a good five inches shorter than me, at least, and had ample curves at the waist. If the opportunity presented itself, where would I start and what would I start with? These questions droned on and on, giving me sleepless nights in my sweltering hostel room.
Sujata Miss seemed to make passes at me when we crossed each other at the hallways and corridors. I was standing with a group of friends outside the classroom, cat calling some girls as they left for lunch, when Sujata Miss stood at the door of the opposite class. She winked at me, holding a white chalk between the index and middle finger like a cigarette. I thought it was a mirage of some sort, a figment of my horny brain creating desperate images of someone I wanted to have sex with, but it was all there -- happening in real time, with a real voluptuous teacher, a dusky beauty who was reaching her mid-thirties, biting her lips at me. I looked away, afraid my friends would tease my sudden erection, but when I turned back, she swept a tongue across her lips and made a shamelessly kissing gesture at me. How could I let her know that I didn't know what she wanted, and even if I did, I didn't know how to get the damn thing done.
❀
It was Sujata Miss who made the first move. Being one of the TAs, I stayed back to erase the blackboard, clean the dusters, rearrange all the chairs and desks before I left the class. She came in after all the students had left, clutching the fat Biology textbook, and sat on the teacher's chair in front of the classroom.
"Good evening, miss." I greeted as I cleared the blackboard with the wet duster.
