Dangler Ivy
@dangler_ivy
Public stories
14 stories
Mommy’s New Master
Tyrell, is your long-time bully, shows up at his house under the pretense of needing tutoring. But from the moment he steps inside, it’s clear he’s not here for math. His eyes lock onto your mother, and his usual taunts towards you are replaced with flirtatious remarks aimed at her. To your utter shock, his mother doesn’t shut it down—instead, she blushes, laughs, and even flirts back. As Tyrell’s advances grow bolder, Mrs. Jenkins finds herself caught between her maternal instincts and the thrill of being desired by a young, dominant man. Meanwhile, your are left helpless, his stomach twisting with humiliation, arousal, and betrayal as he watches his bully seduce the one woman he thought was his.
First Love in a Tuition Class
The afternoon sun filters through the half-drawn curtains of Anupama Ma'am’s makeshift classroom, casting golden streaks across the worn textbooks and scattered notes. The room smells faintly of old paper and jasmine, her signature scent that’s clung to your memories for years. It’s just the two of you today—no other students, no distractions—just the hum of the ceiling fan and the quiet weight of unspoken words. You’ve spent years trying to bury these feelings, but now that you’re alone with her, the years of longing bubble to the surface. Her warm brown eyes flicker with concern as she notices your fidgeting, her voice soft but probing: _"You seem a little tense today, sweetheart... something on your mind?"
The Temple Pond
The temple complex rises from the earth like something ancient and inevitable — stone walls weathered by centuries, the sweet smell of jasmine and camphor drifting from the inner sanctum, the sound of bells marking the hour. It's 6 AM, early enough that the compound is still quiet, the morning mist hanging low over the temple pond (Kulam) — a rectangular pool of still, black water surrounded by ancient stone steps. The pond is sacred, used for ritual bathing, and during these early hours it's private in that certain Indian way: technically public, practically alone. You came to pray. You stayed to walk. And then you saw her.
Storm Shelter
The Western Ghats of Kerala — ancient mountains draped in forests that have stood for millennia, now lashed by a thunderstorm that came from nowhere. The rain falls in sheets, turning the dirt paths to rivers, the air to electric pressure. You arrived at the forest department outpost just as the lightning started, soaked through, shivering, desperate for shelter. The outpost is small — a concrete building with a corrugated roof that drums deafeningly against the rain, a single room with a cot, a table, a cold fireplace. You're alone with her now. The bridge to town is flooded. The other officers are stranded on the other side. It's just you, her, and a storm that shows no sign of breaking.
Among the Rubber Trees
The rubber estates of Kerala stretch across rolling hillsides — rows of trunkless trees with broad canopies overhead, their waxy leaves filtering the afternoon light into something soft and golden. The air is thick with the scent of latex and damp earth, and the canopy creates a natural cathedral of green and gold. The path is narrow, muddy in places, winding between trees that seem centuries old. It's not a tourist trail — it's the kind of path locals know and strangers stumble onto by accident. And then there's the view from the hilltop: an endless expanse of green, the distant shimmer of a river, the mountains beyond. It's quiet here. Remote. You're alone, except when you're not.
Rapido Rendezvous
A busy Monday morning in Bangalore — the Silicon Valley of India, where tech workers flood the streets in a chaos of motorcycles, shared cabs, and the endless stream of whiteboards and laptop bags. The city is already warm at 8 AM, the kind of warmth that settles into your bones and makes you acutely aware of every point of contact. The roads are loud with the sound of scooter horns, the chatter of auto-rickshaw drivers, and the distant roar of the metro overhead. You call a Rapido — the app tells you a driver is three minutes away. You're running late, already sweating through your shirt. Then you see her pull up on her TVS Jupiter scooter, helmet under her arm, and everything else — the heat, the traffic, your impatience — dissolves for a moment.
Before Dawn in the Kitchen
A commercial kitchen in the hours before sunrise — 4:45 AM, the city still asleep. The space is stainless steel and tile, industrial but warm in its own way. The ventilation hums low, the refrigeration units murmur in the background. Through the windows, the sky is shifting from black to deep blue — the world holding its breath before the day begins. The restaurant won't open for hours. For now, it's just the two of you, learning each other's rhythms without words, moving around each other in the confined workspace. There's something deeply intimate about sharing a space in these vulnerable hours — when the world is quiet and the masks haven't been put on yet.
Unexpected Roommate
A converted duplex or semi-detached home in a quiet urban neighborhood — the kind of place rented to young professionals starting out. The space is divided into two separate units with a shared kitchen and living area — technically independent, practically intimate. The furniture is a mismatched collection of thrift store finds and hand-me-downs, but the high ceilings and large windows give it character. You moved here alone, expecting solitude. You furnished your half, settled into routines, grew accustomed to the quiet. Then the landlord's message arrived: a new tenant was coming. You didn't expect her.
The Door That Wasn't Closed
A luxury hotel corridor on a high floor, late at night. The carpet swallows sound, the walls glow with subtle sconces, and the quiet hum of climate control gives everything an insulated, suspended quality. Outside, the city sprawls in lights — anonymous, indifferent. Inside, two colleagues stand at a door. She thanks him for the evening, for being good company, for making a tedious corporate event almost bearable. Her room key is in her hand. Her eyes hold his a beat too long. The "goodnight" hangs in the air like a question.
Seven Years of Waiting
A modern urban setting — a modest but tastefully decorated apartment in a mid-tier building in any major city. The afternoon sun filters through half-drawn curtains, casting warm stripes across the living room. The space tells a story: books stacked on surfaces, a guitar in the corner, faded photographs pinned to a corkboard. She's lived her life here since college — through relationships, through job changes, through all the mundane chapters that make up a person's twenties. Tonight, she's alone as usual, unaware that her past is about to knock on her door.
Path Through the Fields
The setting is a quiet rural village in Kerala, South India, during the height of the Onam festival season. The day has given way to a golden twilight, and the paddy fields stretch endlessly under a sky painted in shades of amber and violet. Fireflies begin to emerge as the last light fades, their soft glow punctuating the darkness like scattered stars. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine, coconut oil, and the faint lingering smoke from temple ceremonies. A narrow mud path winds through the fields, connecting the village temple to the cluster of homes where families gather after the day's celebrations. It is on this sacred, moonlit path that two souls are destined to cross.