Chapter 22: The Plan with Malika

Shalini could hardly focus on anything the next day. The kids babbled around her at school, the chalk screeched across the board, but her thoughts kept drifting to Malika's voice, whispering about a place where men worshipped women like living goddesses.

She changed her outfit that morning to match the rising boldness in her heart — a deep green sleeveless kurti with tiny golden buttons straining against the curve of her chest, paired with leggings that clung so tight every movement felt like a tease. She let her hair down, the waves cascading to her lower back, and a pair of golden anklets tinkled as she walked. Every step felt like a declaration.

In the coaching class, Ravi's jaw nearly fell to the floor when he saw her. His eyes went straight to her cleavage, darted to her hips, then back to her face with an expression that was pure worship. Prayush couldn't hide his reaction either; he sat near the window, pretending to look outside, but his eyes kept drifting to the smooth skin of her shoulders and the light sweat that made the soft fabric cling to her breasts.

Shalini's heart beat faster as she bent forward to help a girl with a grammar exercise, knowing perfectly well her kurti had slipped down to reveal a deep line of cleavage. The girl barely noticed, but behind her, Ravi's breathing grew heavy, and she heard his pen drop to the floor.

A strange rush of power took hold of her.

They want me.

After class, she went to the staff room and checked her phone. A new voice note from Malika glimmered on the screen. She stepped into the deserted storeroom, her heart hammering.

Malika's voice purred through the speaker.

"Listen, Shalini. I booked us a private room for Saturday. A showcase night. You don't have to do anything. Just watch. But if you want, you can let them adore you. I'll be there to guide you."

Shalini squeezed her thighs together.

"There will be couples," Malika continued, "and men who come alone just to bow at a woman's feet. You'll see things that will shock you, maybe even disgust you at first. But then it will turn you on so hard you'll shake. Trust me."

Shalini let out a shaky breath.

Shalini: What would I wear there?

Malika's laugh was like a stroke of silk.

"Anything. But if you want them to worship you, show them your body. A bodycon kurti, maybe a thin chiffon dupatta that slips off your shoulder so easily. Or wear nothing but a short, low-cut dress under your coat and then drop the coat once you're inside."

Shalini's head spun.

Me, in a club? Half-naked? Letting strangers touch me?

The mirror in the storeroom showed her reflection — flushed cheeks, chest heaving, her eyes wide with a desperate, raw need.

Malika continued, voice velvet-slick.

"Imagine this, Shalini. You enter the room. Men line up to kiss your heels. To sniff the inside of your kurti, to pay for a chance to rub their lips on your feet. You could have them crawl, Shalini, like dogs, if you wished."

A throb pulsed low in Shalini's belly. The hunger in her had grown too big to ignore.

That night, Avi had dozed off with his books spread out beside him. Shalini found herself alone in bed, clutching her phone, unable to stop replaying Malika's words.

When she couldn't stand it anymore, she sent a message:

Shalini: What exactly happens there? I want to know everything.

Malika replied almost instantly:

"Women dance if they want. Men touch if they're allowed. There's a stage where you can make a boy kneel in front of you and lick your anklets. You can pull up your kurti, show your thighs, let them worship you with their eyes. Some women let men smell their armpits or their toes. It is your choice how far you go. You can stay clothed the whole time, or you can let them see everything."

Shalini's entire body flushed hot, nipples stiffening under her thin kurti.

Could I?

She touched herself lightly over her leggings, then slipped her hand inside, tracing her slick folds with a shiver. The idea of having someone — anyone — on their knees, kissing her toes, begging to taste her sweat, nearly pushed her over the edge.

She typed, fingers shaking:

Shalini: Tell me more.

Malika responded:

"I went last week, you know," Malika confessed, "I had three men at my feet. One just wanted to massage my calves. Another licked the dust off my sandals. The third — he wanted to smell my panties while I teased him with my voice. I didn't even let him touch me, but he came undone just from my smell."

Shalini gasped, imagining it. She pictured Ravi, on his knees, trembling, nose pressed against her leggings, breathing in her scent while she cupped his chin, telling him to look at her. Or Prayush, bold enough to beg her to let him taste the sweat under her arms, his eyes glazed with need.

The images were so raw, so forbidden, that Shalini came with a muted cry right there in her bed, her hand buried deep in her leggings, Malika's voice echoing through her mind.

When she recovered, she typed one word:

Shalini: Yes.

"Good girl," Malika replied, "Saturday at 7. I'll pick you up. Wear something easy to remove. You'll want to be worshipped properly."

The next morning, Shalini dressed differently again — a tight, sleeveless deep purple kurta that nearly showed the side of her breasts if she moved too quickly, with a slit that revealed her thighs whenever she stepped forward. She paired it with silver heels, her ankles jingling from fresh payal bells she'd bought secretly the day before.

At school, the reactions were immediate. Ravi stared so openly she could see the slight tremble in his hands as he gripped his pen. Prayush's eyes darkened with raw desire, following every inch of skin she dared show. Even a couple of other boys looked up from their books, their mouths falling open as Shalini swept past, queenlike.

She leaned on the table while teaching, letting the deep neckline of the kurta shift forward, offering Ravi a view he could barely handle. His face burned, and he had to adjust his trousers as she called him to the board. The power was heady, almost intoxicating.

After school, Malika's voice note arrived again:

"Remember, Shalini, no one will judge you there. If you want to make them crawl, do it. If you want to put your heel in someone's mouth, do it. You will be adored, not shamed."

Shalini shivered at those words. Adores me.

For years she had longed for that feeling — being seen, worshipped, not just respected but wanted. Maybe this was her chance to become something beyond a mother, beyond a teacher — to be a goddess, as Malika promised.

She made her decision right there. Saturday she would go.

And she would not hold back.

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