School Teacher Fucked Under the Government Office Chair – Part 1

My name is Payal, 28, married for three years, still childless. In my family, I was known not just for my beauty but for the way I moved, the playful sway of my hips, and the teasing sparkle in my eyes.

I stood 5’4”, with fair, glowing skin, big, expressive eyes, and lips that always glistened pink. My body was made to tempt—36C-28-36, curves perfectly balanced.

When I wore a saree or salwar, the narrow arch of my waist and the round fullness of my breasts drew hungry glances. Even the men in my neighbourhood couldn’t hide their curiosity.

This all happened last year. My husband was climbing the corporate ladder at a big MNC, his career shining steadily. I had just landed a teaching position at a government school—a dream opportunity.

But it came with a catch: the school was in a remote village, 150 km away. Daily commuting was impossible, and I had to stay there alone.

Alone. The word itself stirred something in me—freedom, danger, desire. Being away from my husband, from the rules and the routine, I felt my body stir in ways I hadn’t dared to acknowledge before. In the quiet of my village lodging, the nights felt long, and my skin became a source of temptation I couldn’t resist.

The village itself was surprisingly pleasant. The people were warm, respectful, almost like an extended family. The comfort and friendliness made me decide to stay in the village rather than in the nearby town. Within a few days, I found a cosy 1BHK house near the school.

That’s where my real life in the village began. I quickly settled into a routine. Every Saturday, I’d travel back to my in-laws’ house, returning to the village Monday morning for school. Sometimes, my husband would surprise me, arriving in the village on Saturday night to be with me.

And every time we met, it always ended the same way—our bodies tangled, our desires spilling over. My husband in bed was intoxicating—every touch, every whisper in my ear, every brush of his hands across my skin sent shivers down my spine.

When he pressed me against him, hands gripping my waist, his hard cock pushing deep inside me, I would completely lose myself. My body responded to him without restraint. My moans filled the small room as we moved together, sweat glistening on our skin, our hearts pounding in unison.

Each thrust, each gasp, each whispered word drove me further into a delicious, helpless surrender to his pleasure. The only problem was that those stolen moments with my husband lasted barely a day or two. The rest of the week, I was left alone in my small rented house.

At night, the silence pressed down on me, and the heat rising in my body made sleep impossible. My fingers would roam over myself, desperate for release. But no matter how much I touched, it never came close to the raw, consuming pleasure of being fucked by him.

Months passed in this lonely rhythm. Then one day, the school organised an Independence Day program. I had to stand on stage with the staff, so I decided I had to look irresistible.

That morning, I wrapped myself in a white georgette saree with a tricolour border. My blouse was playful yet daring—half sleeves, deep back, showing just enough to tease the imagination. The saree clung to my waist and hugged my curves perfectly.

When I saw myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help but smile, imagining the glances it might attract. My loose, silky black hair fell over my shoulders, brushing lightly against my skin. A hint of kajal darkened my eyes, and pink lipstick enhanced the fullness of my lips.

My dusky glow seemed to radiate in the morning light. Small earrings swayed with my movements, bangles jingled softly on my wrists, and delicate anklets kissed my feet as I moved. Every detail made me feel sensuous, alive, and unbearably aware of the heat simmering in me.

That morning, the school campus buzzed with energy—children marching, patriotic songs echoing, and speeches going on. Important guests had arrived: a local politician, the police inspector, and a few government officers. Everyone greeted each other politely, shaking hands with the staff.

As I stood on stage with the other teachers, I felt eyes on me—more than just polite attention. Several men kept sneaking glances. Their gaze lingered shamelessly on my curves, drinking in the swell of my breasts and the narrow arch of my waist.

A strange heat bloomed inside me, as if I could feel them trying to strip me bare with their eyes. Every movement I made felt charged, every flutter of my saree, every shift in my stance sending shivers down my spine.

Days continued to pass like this, each one a slow tease. My husband and I were both restless, aching with need. We waited eagerly for the weekends. Our bodies are craving the connection that seemed just out of reach, only to be plunged back into lonely weekdays.

The constant tension was becoming unbearable—mentally, physically, and, most of all, sexually. The truth was harsh—neither of us could give up our careers. My government job was stable and promising, and my husband’s position at the MNC was too valuable to risk.

But living apart after marriage was becoming an unbearable strain, both emotionally and physically. We realised there was only one way out: my transfer. If I could get posted closer to the city, our lives would become so much easier.

So, we started pulling strings from every direction. Family members contacted their connections; some reached out to local politicians, others tried to influence officials in the education department. My husband and I did everything possible through friends and relatives as well.

One day, a large district-level program was organised for teachers. I was nominated to represent our school. I expected just another formal gathering, but the atmosphere was charged differently. The State Education Minister was expected, along with senior officers, politicians, and even media personnel.

Standing there, in my carefully chosen attire, I could feel the weight of every gaze—even under the formal eyes of officials, my body drew attention. The swell of my boobs, the curve of my waist beneath the saree, the sway of my hips with every step—they didn’t go unnoticed.

I felt a flush of heat creeping over me, a familiar, insistent ache that reminded me of the weekends I longed for, of the nights I craved my husband’s touch. Even in this official setting, the hunger for connection, for release, burned within me. There was a quiet, simmering tension that refused to be ignored.

That day, I wore a cream-colored chiffon saree with a delicate golden border. My maroon sleeveless blouse clung just enough to highlight my dusky skin, the sheer pallu of the saree teasingly tracing the curve of my waist and hips. My long black hair cascaded freely over my shoulders.

A thin line of eyeliner accentuated my eyes, and my lips bore a soft, inviting pink. To anyone passing by, I might have looked like a respectable school teacher—but those who looked closely could sense the natural, undeniable sensuality of my body.

I felt a spark of hope. Today might be my golden chance. If I could speak directly to the minister, perhaps I could finally request help for my transfer and end the torment of long-distance living.

After the meeting concluded, everyone was invited to the lunch hall. Then I heard someone mention that the minister had retreated to his chamber. My pulse quickened. Gathering every ounce of courage, I decided to seize the moment.

As I approached his office, his PA stopped me at the door. “Ma’am, Sir is busy with an important meeting right now. It won’t be possible to see him without an appointment.”

My confidence wavered. I stepped back, uncertainty prickling at my skin. That’s when a man approached me—around forty, dressed in a dark grey suit, radiating quiet authority and a kind of magnetic confidence that made my breath hitch.

“Madam, you are Teacher Payal, right? Sir has asked for you—but in another cabin.”

Even as he spoke, my body responded in ways I hadn’t expected. My skin felt hotter, my heartbeat faster. Not just from the anticipation of the transfer, but from the subtle, electric pull of a stranger noticing me, approaching me with intent.

I felt a mix of confusion and hope as I followed him to another chamber. The door was closed behind me. Inside, a man sat comfortably, a faint, knowing smile on his face.

“Please, sit down, madam… I’m Rajeev Malhotra, the Principal Secretary. What work did you have with the Minister?” he asked, his tone polite but carrying an undertone that made my pulse race.

Nervously, I lowered myself into the chair. “Actually, Sir… I wanted to request a transfer,” I said softly.

His expression hardened, voice firm. “Look, madam, if you have a problem with your posting, just resign. Hundreds are waiting for this job.”

His words made my breath hitch, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My heartbeat raced as I quickly added, “No, Sir, it’s not that. I love my work, the children, and the villagers. Everything is fine at the school.”

He leaned back slightly, a subtle smirk forming, though his eyes never left me. Then, with more directness, he asked, “Then why exactly do you want a transfer?”

I hesitated, then explained how far the school was from home, the strain of living away from my husband. But as I spoke, I realised he wasn’t really listening to my words. His gaze lingered—first on my face.

Then tracing the soft curve of my saree over my waist and chest, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. The faint, knowing smile playing on his lips made me feel exposed. A shiver ran through me as though my nervousness had become a secret source of pleasure for him.

Every word I spoke seemed to feed his attention. I couldn’t help noticing how it made my body respond—the warmth rising in my chest. My skin suddenly felt alive with a delicate, forbidden tension I hadn’t felt in front of anyone else.

I grew increasingly uneasy. As we talked, I tried to discreetly adjust my saree, pulling the pallu closer to cover myself. But his eyes roamed shamelessly over every curve, drinking in the swell of my breasts and the narrow arch of my waist.

In a professional tone, he said, “Look, madam, I understand your problem, but this isn’t easy. The locations you want currently have no vacancies. And to be honest, there are already many applications pending for those areas.”

My breathing grew heavier, almost pleading. “Please, Sir, if there’s any way you can help.”

He leaned back in his chair, that same faint, knowing smile on his lips. “Alright then, give me your details. Let’s see what I can do.”

He pulled out a notebook, carefully jotting down my name, number, and school location. Then, casually, he asked, “If you get a posting, which locations would you prefer?”

I listed three or four places closest to my city. He noted them with deliberate care, his eyes flicking to mine with every word, scanning my body in a way that made my pulse spike.

As soon as the details were recorded, I quickly stood up, adjusting my pallu. “Thank you, Sir,” I murmured, trying to hide my flush as I turned to leave.

But as I stepped back, my feet froze. In the glass panel of the cabin door, I caught a glimpse—he was staring at me, fingers adjusting something inside his trousers, lips slowly bitten.

A sudden heat rushed through me. For a moment, it felt as though his thoughts, his hungry gaze, had already reached under my clothes, touching me without consent.

I realised then—his intentions were far from innocent. Fear mixed with an unexpected, guilty curiosity. Though I knew I should leave, a small, forbidden thrill ran through me. Silently, I walked out, my body buzzing with a heat I hadn’t felt in years.

Two or three months passed like this. Everyone—from my husband, my family, to distant relatives—tried pulling strings, but nothing worked. I remained trapped, caught between my job, the long distance, and a growing, gnawing stress that seemed to seep into every corner of my life.

Then, out of nowhere, my phone rang. I picked up, and a formal female voice greeted me.

“Namaste madam, this is Seema speaking. Secretary Mr. Rajeev Malhotra has called you. It’s regarding the transfer application you submitted. Please come to his office tomorrow afternoon.”

My heartbeat jumped. For a moment, it felt surreal. After months of being stuck, maybe, finally, something would move. My chest tightened with a mixture of hope and nervous excitement.

A guilty flutter ran through me—memories of his gaze, of that dangerous, lingering tension, surfaced unexpectedly. My fingers tightened around the phone, my mind racing with anticipation. Tomorrow, everything could change.

But deep down, a shiver of something forbidden ran through me—a mix of curiosity, desire, and dread that I couldn’t ignore. Would I be ready for what awaited me in that office? Or would the tension consume me before I even got there?

How do you think Payal will face him tomorrow? Will she finally get her transfer—or will the temptation overwhelm her? Share your thoughts, your excitement, or even your hidden fantasies with me—I’ll be waiting to read every word.

Email: [email protected].