Sabita Ma'Am
Copyright© 2025 by Laxu
Chapter 1: My name is Sabita.
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: My name is Sabita. - Sabita is a 32-year-old college professor—beautiful, loyal, and trapped in a cold marriage. For five long years, she waited for love, affection, and a child… but all she got was distance, silence, and blame for not getting pregnant. One night, a bold conversation with her friend changes everything. Sabita discovers her body’s real desires—and that her husband has never truly satisfied her. That’s when he enters her life. Sanju, her younger student, watches her like no man ever has.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Cheating Cream Pie Massage Pregnancy Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Teacher/Student Slow
My name is Sabita.
Thirty-two years of age, five feet five inches tall, fair-skinned, and a professor of Mathematics at a reputed college. On paper, it might sound like I have everything a woman could wish for — a decent career, a stable income, and a respectable marriage of five years. But what no one ever tells you is how quiet heartbreak can be. How it doesn’t always come with loud arguments or broken dishes. Sometimes, it creeps in silently ... like a crack in a glass vase — invisible at first, but deepening with time until it shatters completely.
I was twenty-seven when I married Ravi.
He was everything my parents had wanted — tall, soft-spoken, working in an IT company with a foreign assignment history. Our horoscopes matched, and our families exchanged sweets and garlands like people passing on fragile dreams. I wasn’t in love with him when we married, but I believed I would grow into it. That’s what Indian women are told, aren’t we? “Pyaar toh shaadi ke baad ho jaata hai, beta,” they said. Love comes later — after the sindoor, the rituals, and the sacrifices.
And for a while, it did.
Ravi was gentle, respectful. He would kiss my forehead before leaving for work, and I’d pack his tiffin with a smile. Our nights were filled with soft moans and whispered laughter, our weekends with grocery runs and movie nights. We weren’t perfect, but we were comfortable. I started thinking maybe this was enough.
Then came the pressure.
It started with a question — always polite, always masked in sweetness. “Koi khushkhabri?” my mother-in-law asked one evening, sipping her tea with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
When I said no, she didn’t comment. Not then. But I felt the shift — the way she stopped bringing me sweets from the temple, the way her gaze lingered longer on my abdomen than my face. Ravi told me to ignore it, that we were “still young” and “it’ll happen when it’s meant to.” I believed him. Or at least, I wanted to.
But months passed. Then a year.
We consulted doctors. Tests were run. Needles pricked, and probes invaded. The verdict was clear — I was healthy. But Ravi? His reports were never discussed. His mother would loudly chant, “Sab kuch toh normal hai, toh problem kaha hai? Aurat hi toh garbh dharan karti hai.” As if being a woman automatically made infertility my fault.
Slowly, the warmth between Ravi and me began to fade. He stopped holding my hand when we watched TV. Our conversations turned transactional — “What’s for dinner?” “Did you pay the bill?” “Mummy ka medicine le aayi?”
I began to miss the sound of my own laughter.
Nights became the hardest. We still shared a bed, but he would sleep with his back turned, his breaths even and distant. I craved his touch, not just sexually, but emotionally — a hand on my cheek, a whisper of reassurance, anything. But all I received was silence.
I started working late. Took extra classes, guided research students, signed up for college workshops — anything to avoid going home early. My colleagues praised my dedication, not realizing it was born from desperation, not ambition.