Practice Problems When I entered the house this time, I didn’t wait for someone to greet me. I knew the route already — through the long corridor with hanging oil paintings, past the shrine with flickering diyas, and into the cool, polished drawing room where Tara always held court. Except today, she wasn’t lounging on the sofa. She was at the dining table, hair in a tight ponytail, glasses on — real or fake, I couldn’t tell — and a massive open notebook filled with scribbled integrals in front of her. She looked up like a school principal. “You’re on time. Good.” “I was five minutes early,” I said, taking my seat.
She pushed a pencil toward me with a smirk. “Pop quiz. No cheating.” I looked at the page. The first question was reasonable. The second was twisted. The third? Not even syllabus material. “Tara,” I said slowly, “this is a mix of JEE Advanced and black magic.” She leaned in, chin resting on her hand. “I thought you said you were smart.” I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t need help. You’re testing me.” She tapped her pencil. “Isn’t that what tuition is for?” I sighed and picked up the pencil.
Five minutes in, I was solving things with mechanical precision. Her eyes never left me — not my face, not my fingers, not the way my lips moved when I muttered through integrals. It was a gaze I felt in my chest. “You’re good with your hands,” she murmured. I froze for half a second. “Calculations, I mean,” she added with a laugh. When I finished the page, I pushed it back to her. “Anything else, miss?” She tilted her head. “I think I deserve a reward. I did come up with such clever questions.” I raised an eyebrow. “And what kind of reward would that be?”
Her response was to stand, walk behind me, and let her fingers slide across my shoulders like a cat stretching. “Relax, sir. You look tense.” I didn’t respond. Not even when she leaned down to whisper in my ear, her breath warm. “Do you ever take breaks during study hours?” I turned slightly. Our faces were inches apart. “Do you always harass your tutors?” I said, voice low. “Only the cute ones.”
She moved around to face me again, and in a swift motion, hopped up onto the edge of the table, legs crossed. The skirt rode up. No accident. She held up her phone and said, “Let’s take a break. I’ll show you something.” I expected a meme. Instead, she played a video of two people kissing — deeply, wetly, hungrily. A scene from some indie film. Her finger paused mid-moan. “I love how raw this is,” she said, not looking at me. I swallowed hard. “This part of your math homework, too?” She locked eyes. “Consider it… body chemistry.”
Then she slipped down from the table, closed the space between us, and kissed me. No warning. Just pressure. Lips. Teeth. Heat. My arms stayed frozen for three seconds — professional instinct, fear, desire, all crashing at once — before I grabbed her waist and pulled her in like I’d been drowning for days. She moaned against my mouth. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t curious. It was hunger laced with mischief. She pulled me by the hand toward the stairs. “Bedroom?” I asked, breath ragged. “No,” she said. “Too close to mami.”
She dragged me toward the study — a small, sunlit room lined with books and a dusty desktop computer nobody used anymore. She locked the door. And we crashed onto the floor rug. Clothes didn’t come off in neat steps. They peeled. Tangled. Her blouse unbuttoned halfway before she tore it open herself, laughing. I kissed down her neck, her chest, her stomach — tasting her in fragments, like a man memorizing a new language. She straddled me in her underwear, hips grinding slowly. “I like lessons like this,” she gasped. “Hands-on.”
We tried positions like they were test problems: Her on top, skirt still on, unzipped halfway Me kneeling behind her as she clung to the bookshelf On our sides, tangled, mouth to shoulder Her riding me with just her bra on, head thrown back And finally, me standing, lifting her slightly off the ground, her legs around my waist Every move came with a whispered dare or a bitten lip. The rug burned against my knees. The books rattled in their shelves. It ended with both of us muffling moans — her in my neck, me in her hair.
After, she lay there, sweaty and glowing. “You’ve earned your paycheck,” she teased. I shook my head, still breathless. “You’ll ruin me.” She reached for her phone, swiped it open. “Want to make some money to recover?” she asked. “There’s a promo on 4rabet right now. First-time cricket bet pays triple.” I blinked. “You bet?” “Of course,” she grinned. “Math, odds — same thing.” I watched her screen. Her balance was higher than mine had ever been. “Maybe I should start,” I murmured. She smirked, tossed me the phone. “Next time,” she said. “Lesson’s over.”
As I buttoned up and tried to fix my hair in the tiny, cracked mirror above the desk, I felt a shift in something. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t regret. It was curiosity. About how far this could go. What else would she try? What else would I let her do? Outside the study, the house was still quiet. Afternoon sun dappled the hallway. No footsteps, no doors creaking. Just the soft tick of an old grandfather clock. I opened the study door and slipped out, only to find Mami standing at the other end of the hallway with folded arms.
She was holding an empty teacup. We stared at each other. She looked down at the wrinkled collar of my shirt. Then back at my face. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Be careful, beta,” she said. “Tara doesn’t like to lose.” And then she walked past, heels clicking softly, leaving behind perfume and implications. At the gate, I paused. Took out my phone. The 4rabet app was still open. Her balance blinked cheerfully — 15,600 rupees. I clicked it shut. Not yet. But soon. Maybe next time, I wouldn’t be the one being tested.
