I woke up at seven, the room still quiet in a way that felt wrong. Sunlight cut through the gap in the curtains and landed on Ahena’s empty bed. I grabbed my phone before I even sat up properly and typed:
Me: Good morning, didi. How was your first night as a married woman? 😏
I sent it and waited.
By eleven I still had no reply. I was sitting cross-legged on my (technically now *our*) bed, eating leftover poha straight from the bowl, when the phone finally rang. Her name flashed on the screen. I picked up immediately, mouth half-full.
“Hello?”
“Saina!” Her voice was bright, a little breathless, like she had been waiting to tell someone. “I didn’t know he is so good at sex.”
I choked hard on the poha. Coughing, eyes watering, I barely managed to set the bowl down before I dropped the phone.
“Saina? You okay?”
“W-what the fuck, Ahena?” I wheezed, still coughing. “You start with that?”
She laughed—soft, shy, but clearly pleased. “Yesterday… he fucked me three times. Three! I didn’t think he had that much energy. He’s… thick, Saina. Like really thick. And long, maybe eight inches? It hurt at first but then… God.”
I stared at the wall, suddenly warm everywhere. The image flashed in my head—her soft body under his bulky frame, those thick glasses probably fogged up or thrown aside. I could almost hear the sounds she must have made.
“You’re telling me this while I’m eating,” I muttered.
She kept going anyway, voice dropping a little. “The first time was quick, but the second… he took his time. Made me come twice before he did. I didn’t know I could feel like that.”
I listened, half in shock, half in that familiar ache. We talked for another twenty minutes—about the house in Bengaluru they would move to soon, about how surprisingly gentle he could be after the lights went off, about how sore she felt this morning but in a good way. When we finally hung up I set the phone down and looked around the empty room.
The loneliness hit harder than I expected.
—
Two Years Later
—
Time moved faster than I thought it would.
I was now in my third year of B.Tech, consistently the topper of the class. Hostel life had turned me into something of a legend—part genius, part chaos. People knew my name. Professors liked me. Juniors looked up to me. But no one actually dared to ask me out. I had a reputation for being sharp-tongued and unpredictable. The few boys who tried in the beginning got roasted so thoroughly they warned the others.
My masturbation had decreased drastically. The desperate late-night sessions with porn became rare. Most nights I just fell asleep exhausted from assignments and projects, one hand loosely between my thighs out of habit but without real heat behind it.
Ahena and her husband were settled in Bengaluru now. He had a stable job in some IT firm; she had moved into a better role in the same company. Their relationship looked solid from the outside—regular calls, photos of them on weekend trips, her soft smiles next to his still-bespectacled face. We talked a lot, almost every other day. Sometimes late at night she would still share little bedroom details when she felt like it. I listened, teased her, and tried not to feel the empty space beside me.
Then one ordinary Tuesday, everything shifted a little.
His name was Arjun.
He was in the same department, one year junior, tall and quietly confident with an easy smile that didn’t feel forced. Unlike the others who had tried and failed, he didn’t come at me with cheap lines or nervous compliments. He simply started showing up—sitting next to me in the library during group study, bringing me coffee exactly the way I liked it during late project nights, listening when I ranted about professors or hostel food.
After a month of this quiet pursuit, he finally said it plainly one evening on the campus walkway.
“I really like you, Saina. Not just because you’re brilliant or beautiful. I like how you are. Would you be my girlfriend?”
I looked at him for a long moment. No racing heart, no fireworks, but something warm and steady. After two years of the same empty room and long-distance twin chats, steady sounded good.
I accepted.
We had been dating for a month now.
He was respectful—kisses that started soft and grew hungry, hands that never pushed too far, late-night calls where he made me laugh. Sex hadn’t happened yet, but the tension was building nicely. For the first time in a while I felt like something in my life was moving forward instead of just circling the same quiet ache.
Ahena was thrilled when I told her. “Finally someone brave enough,” she had laughed. “Send pictures. I want to see if he’s worthy of my wild little sister.”
Life felt… almost full.
But deep down I still wondered how long “almost” would be enough.
****
**Scene: Studying in the Heat**
Arjun’s studio apartment was small but clean, the kind of place a junior who hated hostel mess food would rent just so he could cook proper meals. The single room doubled as bedroom, study, and kitchen. A narrow balcony looked out over a quiet side street. I had started showing up here more often than I admitted—partly for the quiet, partly because his dal and rice actually tasted like home.
That afternoon the heat was vicious.
The power had been out for almost two hours. The ceiling fan was dead. The windows were open but the air outside was just as thick and still. Both of us were already soaked. My white cotton top clung to my back and chest; dark patches of sweat had spread under my arms and between my breasts. My notebook pages were soft and warped where my wrist had rested. Arjun’s grey T-shirt was darker in places, stuck to his chest and stomach.
I tossed my pen down and leaned back against the wall.
“Arjun, can I remove my top? I have my bra on and it’s too hot.”
His eyes flicked up from the notes, landed on the damp fabric stretched across my chest, and stayed there for half a second longer than necessary. The cleavage the heat had created was clearly visible—soft, slightly shiny skin, the upper curves of my breasts pushed together by the bra.
He swallowed. “Yeah… of course.”
I peeled the top over my head. The sudden coolness of air on my skin felt almost indecent. I tossed the wet cloth onto the small pile of laundry near the bathroom door. Arjun stood, took it without a word, and walked over to the tiny washing machine in the corner. While he was there I looked at him properly.
“You too,” I said. “It’s ridiculous. Take yours off.”
He hesitated only a moment, then pulled his T-shirt over his head and added it to the machine. His body was lean and solid from the morning runs he never skipped—defined shoulders, a flat stomach that still held a thin sheen of sweat. He wore only dark shorts now. I stayed in my black bra and jeans, the denim sticking uncomfortably to my thighs.
We sat back down on the thin mattress that served as both bed and study space, notebooks open between us. I was explaining a circuit theorem he had been stuck on, pointing at the diagram with the end of my pen. Every time I leaned forward the bra shifted and the soft weight of my breasts moved with it. I felt his gaze drop more than once—quick, careful glances at the line of cleavage, the way a single drop of sweat had traced down between them.
He asked another question about the concept. His voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t completely on the page.
I kept talking, kept writing, and let the heavy air and the quiet tension sit between us without commenting on it.
That was where the afternoon stayed—two half-dressed bodies in a hot, powerless room, notebooks open, and the slow, repeated pull of his gaze toward my chest.
Arjun took both our tops and stuffed them into the small washing machine in the corner. The lid closed with a soft click. Neither of us thought much about it at the time—just two wet shirts that needed cleaning. He came back and sat beside me again on the mattress, bare-chested, still in his shorts. I stayed in my black bra and jeans, notebook open on my lap.
We tried to keep studying. I explained the circuit concept again, pointing at the diagram. The heat made every movement sticky. After a few minutes I noticed the clear outline pressing against the front of his shorts—thick, half-hard, impossible to miss. I was just about to say something when the power suddenly returned.
The ceiling fan spun to life with a loud rattle. The tube light flickered and stayed on, flooding the room in harsh white. My cleavage was glistening with sweat under the sudden brightness; a thin line of moisture ran between my breasts and disappeared into the bra. Arjun’s eyes locked there and refused to leave.
I cleared my throat.
“So, Arjun… how many girlfriends did you have before me?”
He blinked, forced his gaze up, and answered quietly, “Only one.”
I grinned. “Only one, hmm?”
Without warning I reached over and cupped the hard length through his shorts, giving it a firm squeeze. “Then what is this?”
His breath caught. A low sound left his throat. I stroked him slowly over the fabric, feeling him thicken further under my palm. After a few seconds I guided his hand to my chest.
“You can touch,” I said.
His fingers closed around my breast through the bra, hesitant at first, then bolder. He squeezed, thumbed the nipple until it peaked against the lace. I arched into his hand. He leaned in, pulled the cup down, and took the freed nipple into his mouth—hot, wet, sucking with growing hunger. His other hand found the second breast, kneading it while his tongue and lips worked the first. I kept stroking him through the shorts, feeling the damp spot spreading where the tip pressed against the cloth.
We stayed like that for long minutes—his mouth on my breasts, my hand on his cock, the fan humming above us, both of us breathing harder and harder. When we finally pulled apart we were both taking deep, uneven breaths. His penis twitched visibly inside the shorts, straining.
He reached for the button of my jeans.
I caught his wrist.
“Not till we marry,” I said, voice soft but firm. “I can’t have sex before that.”
His face fell. The disappointment was clear, but he nodded without arguing. Silence sat between us for a few seconds. I felt a small twist of guilt watching him.
“Well…” I said, shifting closer, “I can still give you a gift.”
I guided him to sit on the edge of the mattress. Then I reached up, pulled the pin from my hair, and twisted the damp strands into a quick knot at the back of my head so nothing would fall in the way. I slid off the bed and knelt on the floor between his knees, looking up at him.
I stayed on my knees between his legs and looked up at him for a second. Arjun’s breathing was already uneven. The thick outline in his shorts twitched again under the bright tube light.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband and tugged. He lifted his hips so I could pull the shorts and underwear down together. His cock sprang free—hard, flushed, the tip already shiny. I wrapped my right hand around the base and gave a slow stroke from root to head, watching a clear bead form at the slit.
“Just the gift,” I reminded him softly, then leaned in.
I licked the underside first, from the base all the way up, slow and flat. His thighs tensed. When I reached the head I circled it with my tongue, tasting the salt, before I opened my mouth and took him in. I sank down until my lips met my fist, then pulled back, leaving the shaft wet and glistening. I set a steady rhythm—down, up, tongue pressing against the underside on every stroke—while my hand twisted gently at the base.
Arjun’s hand found the back of my head, not pushing, just resting there. A low groan left him when I hollowed my cheeks and sucked harder on the upward pull. I took him deeper on the next pass, feeling the head nudge the back of my throat. My eyes watered a little but I kept going, bobbing faster now, the wet sounds loud in the small room. Spit ran down his shaft and over my fingers.
I pulled off with a soft pop, stroked him quickly while I caught my breath, then took him again—shallower this time, focusing on the sensitive head, tongue flicking the underside of the ridge. His hips jerked. The hand in my hair tightened.
“Saina… I’m close—”
I hummed around him and sped up, sucking harder, fist pumping in time with my mouth. His thighs started to shake. A broken sound tore out of him. Hot pulses spilled across my tongue—thick, salty, one after another. I kept him in my mouth through it, swallowing what I could, the rest leaking from the corner of my lips and down my chin. His cock twitched hard against my tongue with every spurt until he finally softened a little and the last aftershocks faded.
I pulled back slowly, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked up at him. Arjun was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes half-lidded and dark. His cock still glistened, softening against his stomach.
I stayed kneeling for a moment longer, then rested my cheek lightly against his bare thigh while both of us waited for our breathing to even out.
The washing machine hummed quietly in the corner. Our tops were still wet inside it. Neither of us moved to get dressed.
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