A Little Something

The last days in Australia unfolded like silk pulled too thin. Meghna stayed closer to me, folding herself into routines that felt familiar: lazy coffees, slow walks, laughter that sat prettily on her lips. But even as her hand slipped into mine, her gaze was elsewhere. Her phone lit up, again and again, her thumb pausing over the keyboard, trying, failing.

Pratyush had gone silent.

Yet in the privacy of his small apartment, silence was the last thing that lived. He sprawled across his bed, her pictures glowing on his phone — Meghna’s navel peeking from that yellow saree, the snug curve of her blouse pressing tight against her breasts. His fist slid around his cock, stroking slow, heavy, wet with pre-cum, as he remembered the way she moaned into his ear on the catamaran, the way she begged in whispers at the dive shop. His hips jerked upward, ****, leaking across his knuckles.

“Fuck, Meghna,” he groaned, spilling in long, hot ropes over his stomach, chest heaving, body shuddering. And still he scrolled, pumping himself again, refusing to stop, refusing to let the image of her fade.

And sometimes, darker thoughts came. His hand stilled, his cock twitching with the memory of that moment before their dinner date — the subtle scrape of his nail, slicing the condom’s rim. She had never noticed. She had ridden him like fire, moaning with abandon. The secret made him harder now, painfully so.

On the final day, she found him again.

Their meeting was quieter, tinged with something heavier. On the dock, the sea black and endless behind them, she fell against his chest, lips hungry, needing.

He kissed her back, tongue thrusting deep, claiming her. His hands slipped beneath her blouse, cupping her bare breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped into his mouth. He pulled the saree’s pallu aside, baring her stomach, kissing down her navel before hiking the silk higher.

“God, I’ll miss this body,” he murmured, sliding his fingers into her damp heat. She moaned, clutching his shoulders, hips bucking.

“Not here,” she whispered — but her thighs spread wider all the same.

He fucked her with his fingers until she soaked his hand, then pressed her against a mooring post, sliding his cock into her with one deep, **** thrust. She cried out, muffling the sound against his chest, while he fucked her hard and wet, the dock creaking beneath them.

“I’ll miss you,” she gasped, cunt gripping him tighter with each stroke.

“I already do,” he growled, biting at her neck, rutting into her with a feral hunger.

She came first, shuddering, clutching his back, and he followed seconds later, spilling deep inside her, groaning her name into the night.

From the shadows, I stood still, silent, my role unchanging — witness, never intruder.

When it was over, their bodies trembled against each other, lips still locked, eyes wet with something more than lust. She fixed her saree, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing in the dark.

The next morning, we boarded our flight home.

Back in our own world, normalcy tried to return — but her body carried new secrets. The nausea, the heaviness, the late cycle. One morning, she locked herself in the bathroom, pale, trembling.

Two pink lines stared back at her.

Her breath broke as she lifted her phone, snapped the picture, sent it without thinking.

Minutes later, her screen lit up.

“A little something to remember me by.”

Her knees buckled, one hand clutching her stomach, the other trembling around her phone. Between fear, fury, and a forbidden ache of desire, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.

And somewhere, oceans away, Pratyush smiled.