My Bf - Small Dick

October 12th

I’m writing this down because if I don’t, I think my skin might just split open from the pressure of keeping it all inside. My name is Anya, I’m twenty-four, and I live in a shared apartment in a dusty, loud, beautiful corner of South Delhi. And I have a secret that is so loud, it’s a wonder the entire neighbourhood can’t hear it screaming in the silence between my heartbeats.

It starts, as most bad decisions do, with a good one. My roommates, Priya and Simran, went home for a ten-day festival. Ten days. The apartment, usually buzzing with gossip, the smell of Maggi, and the constant hum of the AC, would be empty. And I was terrified. Not of burglars. Not of the dark. Of ghosts. Bhoots. Pret. Whatever you want to call them. It’s a childish, clawing fear that has followed me since I was a little girl, fed on a steady diet of my grandmother’s stories. An empty flat, with its creaking pipes and sudden, inexplicable silences, is a canvas for every spectral horror my mind can conjure.

So, I asked Deep to stay with me.

Deep. My boyfriend. The name feels like a lie in my mouth even now. It’s supposed to mean profound, bottomless, intense. But Deep was… shallow. A placid lake you could see the bottom of. He was safe. He was kind. He brought me tulips and remembered my favourite flavour of ice cream. And his dick was small. Not just small, but… unassuming. Polite. It never demanded anything. It was just… there. Our sex life was a quiet, predictable transaction. A gentle rocking, a few soft moans (mostly from him), and then it was over. I’d lie there in the aftermath, staring at the ceiling fan tracing lazy circles, feeling nothing but a vague, hollow ache. I felt like a ghost in my own body.

He moved in with a small duffel bag. He was happy to be my protector. My knight against the imaginary. I felt a pang of guilt, sharp and acidic, seeing his earnest smile.

The first night, the fear was real. Every rustle of the neem tree outside my window was a chudail’s whisper. I clung to Deep, and he held me, his body a familiar, warm wall. But as the days passed, the fear of the supernatural was slowly replaced by a different, more potent kind of terror. The terror of my own desire.

Because Priya’s boyfriend, Rohan, was always around.

Rohan. Even his name sounds like a low growl. Where Deep was soft edges and gentle words, Rohan was all hard lines and crackling energy. He was a marketing executive by day and a badminton beast by evening. Priya, in the intimate, wine-fueled confessions we shared in the kitchen, had painted a very specific picture of him in the bedroom. “It’s like he’s trying to break me, Anya,” she’d sigh, a smug, well-fucked smile playing on her lips. “And he’s so… big. I can’t walk straight for an hour after.” She’d giggle, and I’d force a laugh, my mind reeling, my skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with the Delhi summer.

I’d always admired him, from the first day Priya introduced him. It was more than admiration. It was a primal pull. He had this way of occupying a room, not by being loud, but by a sort of dense, magnetic silence. His eyes were the colour of dark honey, and they saw too much. When they landed on me, I felt stripped bare, as if he could see the restless, hungry creature pacing inside me.

And his body. My god. He played badminton most evenings at a court nearby, and he’d often come over afterwards to pick Priya up. He’d stand in our doorway, his dark hair damp with sweat, a white t-shirt clinging to the hard planes of his chest and back. My eyes, traitors that they are, would always, always drop. To the bulge in his shorts. It was a blatant, confident outline. A promise. A threat. Just the sight of it, that heavy shape against the soft fabric, would send a jolt straight to my core, making me wet in an instant. It was a physiological reaction, pure and shameless. Deep’s polite little presence never elicited that.

We played badminton together sometimes, the four of us. It was a weekly ritual. And on the court, Rohan was a different animal. All coiled strength and explosive movement. The sound of his racquet connecting with the shuttlecock was a sharp, satisfying thwack. He’d grunt with the effort of a smash, a low, guttural sound that did things to me I’m ashamed to write down. But the true undoing of me was his smell.

One evening, a week before my roommates left, we’d played a particularly brutal match. It was just the two of us; Priya was sick, and Deep was working late. The air was thick with humidity, the sodium-vapour lights casting long, dancing shadows. We were both drenched. After we finished, panting, he pulled off the white terrycloth wristband he always wore. He tossed it onto his gym bag.

“Good game, Anya,” he said, his voice a little rough from exertion.

“You nearly killed me,” I laughed, my heart hammering from more than just the exercise.

He grinned, a flash of white in his sweaty, handsome face, and went to the court’s tap to splash water on his head.

My eyes fell on the wristband. It was damp, dark with his sweat. Without thinking, driven by a compulsion I didn’t understand, I picked it up. It was warm. I stuffed it into my pocket, my cheeks burning.

“I’ll see you later,” I called out, my voice unnaturally high.

He waved without looking back.

At home, in the sanctity of my room, the lock turned, I took it out. The room was dark. I brought it to my face. The smell hit me first—not the gross, acrid smell of stale sweat, but something musky, salty, deeply, fundamentally male. It was the scent of his skin, his effort, his heat. It was Rohan, distilled into a fabric band. It was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever encountered.

I sank onto my bed, my legs weak. I brought the wristband to my nose again, inhaling deeply, letting the aroma fill my lungs, my head. My other hand slipped under the waistband of my shorts, into my panties. I was already slick. I thought of him on the court, the powerful muscles of his thighs bunching and releasing, the sheen of sweat on his neck, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration. I thought of that bulge. I imagined what it looked like, freed from the confines of his shorts. Hard and thick and demanding.

I came in less than a minute, a silent, shuddering climax, my back arching off the bed, my teeth biting into the soft fabric of the wristband to keep from screaming his name. The guilt came afterwards, cold and clammy. He was my roommate’s boyfriend. He was Priya’s. I hid the wristband in a zipped compartment of my handbag, a dirty, delicious secret.

October 14th

It’s the third night of Deep’s stay. The apartment feels smaller. His presence, which was supposed to be a comfort, is starting to feel like a cage. He’s sitting on the other end of the sofa, watching a cricket match, his hand idly resting on my foot. His touch feels… administrative. Like he’s checking off a box on the ‘Good Boyfriend’ list.

The doorbell rings.

My heart, that stupid traitorous organ, leaps into my throat. I know who it is. Deep gets up with a sigh, pausing his precious match.

It’s Rohan. Of course, it is. He’s holding a box of Priya’s favourite motichoor laddoos, sent by his mother. “Maa sent this for Priya,” he says, his eyes finding mine over Deep’s shoulder. “Didn’t know she was out of town.”

“Come in, bro,” Deep says, clapping him on the back. They’re friendly. The thought makes me nauseous.

Rohan steps in. He’s wearing grey track pants and a black t-shirt. The track pants leave very, very little to the imagination. I force my eyes to stay on his face. It’s a losing battle.

We make small talk. The three of us. It’s excruciating. Deep offers him a beer. He accepts. They start talking about the cricket match. I feel invisible, and yet hyper-visible, every cell in my body screaming with awareness of Rohan. The way he holds his bottle. The way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his leg is stretched out, the thick muscle of his thigh evident even through the soft fabric.

The conversation lulls. Deep’s phone buzzes. It’s his mother. He gives an apologetic shrug and heads to the balcony to take the call, sliding the glass door shut.

And just like that, we are alone.

The air in the room thickens, becomes heavy, charged. The hum of the refrigerator is deafening. I can’t look at him. I focus on a thread coming loose on the sofa cushion.

“You’ve been quiet, Anya,” Rohan says. His voice is low, meant only for me.

I risk a glance. He’s watching me, his honey-dark eyes intent. There’s a small, knowing smile on his lips. He knows. He has to know. He can probably smell the lust on me, like I can still, sometimes, smell his sweat on the memory of that wristband.

“Just tired,” I mumble, taking a sip of my water. My hand is shaking.

“Badminton tomorrow?” he asks, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a second. “Court is booked. Seven PM. Since Priya’s not here… you could use the practice. You’re getting slow.”

It’s a challenge. A provocation.

Before I can think, before I can remember that I have a boyfriend on the balcony and a shred of decency somewhere inside me, I hear myself say, “You wish. I’ll wipe the court with you.”

His smile widens. It’s a predator’s smile. “We’ll see.”

Deep comes back in, all apologies. Rohan finishes his beer, stands up. “I should go. Anya, I’ll see you tomorrow. Seven. Don’t be late.” The way he says my name… it’s a caress. A claim.

After he leaves, the apartment feels dead again. Deep tries to kiss me, and I turn my head, pretending to adjust the pillow. His lips land on my cheek. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

October 15th

I am a woman possessed. All day, the only thing on my mind has been the game. The game. I put on my best sports bra, my tightest shorts. I took a long shower, shaved everything, moisturized my skin until it gleamed. I was preparing for a sacrifice.

Deep was in the living room, working on his laptop. “Going to play with Rohan?” he asked, not looking up.

“Yeah. Be back in an hour or so.”

“Have fun.” He was already absorbed in his spreadsheet.

The walk to the badminton court was a blur. The evening air was cool, a brief respite from the day’s heat. My stomach was a tight knot of anticipation and fear.

He was already there, warming up. He’d booked the court for two hours. Two hours. He saw me and stopped, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep of my body. It was so blatant, so different from Deep’s shy, appreciative glances. This felt like being branded.

“Ready to lose?” he asked.

“In your dreams.”

We started playing. And it was a war. Every shot was loaded with meaning. Every smash was a declaration. He was relentless, making me run across the court, pushing me to my limits. I was sweating, panting, my hair sticking to my forehead. And I was more turned on than I’d ever been in my life. The smell of his sweat, that intoxicating musk, began to fill the enclosed space. It was the wristband, but now it was all around me, a cloud of pure desire.

We finished the last point, both of us breathless. I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving. He walked towards the bench, grabbed his water bottle, and drank deeply, the water sloshing down his chin, onto his chest. He pulled his t-shirt off over his head in one fluid motion and used it to wipe his face.

I stopped breathing.

His body was… a masterpiece. Hard, defined abdominal muscles, a broad chest dusted with dark hair that trailed down, disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. His skin was glistening with a fine layer of sweat, catching the harsh fluorescent light. I could see the powerful beat of his heart in the hollow of his throat.

But in that moment, with the scent in the air, all I could feel was a profound, terrifying sense of being utterly, completely alive. For the first time in years, I wasn’t scared of ghosts.

October 16th

I am writing this from the epicenter of the earthquake. The aftershocks are still moving through me, a constant, humming tremor deep in my bones. My skin smells like him. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the ghost-pressure of his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat. I am ruined for any other touch. I think I knew I would be, from the moment I picked up that sweaty wristband. Some part of me was already planning this collapse.

The night it happened was a study in slow-burning tension. The kind that makes the air feel thick and syrupy, every sound unnaturally sharp.

My roommate, Priya, and Deep were leaving for Punjab together. Some family wedding. The plan was for all four of us—me, Deep, Priya, and Rohan—to pile into a cab and drop them at the airport. A normal, friendly send-off. It felt like the most grotesque performance of my life.

In the cab, I was trapped in the middle seat. Deep on my left, his hand resting on my knee, a placid, possessive weight. Rohan on my right, a silent storm of heat and muscle, his arm pressed against mine from shoulder to elbow. Every bump in the road, every swerve, jolted us together. The friction of his skin through his thin cotton shirt was a brand. I could feel the hard line of his thigh against mine. I kept my eyes fixed on the headrest in front of me, my entire world narrowed to that six-inch point of contact. I was screaming on the inside. I think he knew.

Deep, oblivious, chatted about the wedding rituals. Priya talked about her cousins. Rohan said nothing. Just stared out the window, but I could feel his attention like a physical touch, a laser focused on the side of my face, on the rapid pulse I was sure was visible in my neck.

At the departures gate, there were hugs. Priya hugged me, then Rohan. A long, familiar hug. I felt a stab of something ugly and green watching his arms wrap around her. Then it was Deep’s turn. He hugged me, a little awkwardly. “Don’t be scared, okay? I’ll call you when I land,” he whispered. I nodded into his shoulder, my eyes squeezed shut, feeling like the worst person alive.

And then it was Rohan’s turn to hug me.

It was supposed to be a quick, brotherly thing. A pat on the back. But when his arms went around me, the world stopped. He pulled me in close, tight. One hand splayed against the small of my back, the other between my shoulder blades. I was flush against him, my face buried in the hollow of his neck. And I inhaled. There it was. That smell. Not the intense musk from the badminton court, but his base scent. Clean skin, a faint trace of his deodorant, something essentially, undeniably male. It was a five-second hug that lasted a lifetime. When he pulled away, his eyes held mine for a fraction of a second too long. A message. An acknowledgment. The air between us was cracked open.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the sliding glass doors.

The ride back was a different kind of torture. Just me and Rohan in the cavernous, silent cab. The space between us on the seat felt vast and charged, like a minefield. He didn’t look at me. He scrolled through his phone, his jaw tight.

“You okay?” he finally asked, his voice rough.

“Yeah. Just… you know. The ghosts.” It was a pathetic, transparent excuse.

He let out a short, soft breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Right. The ghosts.”

He had the driver drop us in the basement of our apartment building. The concrete cavern was dim and cool, smelling of petrol and dust. Our footsteps echoed. This was it. The moment we’d go our separate ways. Him to his empty apartment, me to mine. The thought was a physical pain. I couldn’t go up there alone. Not with this new, living, breathing desire clawing at my insides. The imaginary ghosts were nothing compared to the very real one waiting for me in the form of my own conscience.

The elevator arrived with a dull ping. I couldn’t get in.

“Rohan?” My voice was small, echoing in the empty basement.

He turned, his hand holding the elevator door open. “Hmm?”

“Would you… I mean, do you want to come up for some chai? I just… I don’t want to be alone yet.” The request hung in the air, naked and pleading.

He hesitated. I saw the war in his eyes. The loyalty to Priya. The common sense. The knowledge of what this was, what it could be. It was all there, a storm in his honey-dark gaze.

“Anya…” It was a warning.

“Please? Just for a bit. I’ll make the tea. You can… I don’t know, just sit there. So the flat doesn’t feel so empty.” I was babbling. I sounded pathetic. I was using my fear, weaponizing it.

He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders slumping in a kind of surrender. “Okay. Chai. But just for a bit.”

The ascent in the elevator was agony. We stood on opposite sides of the small space, not speaking, not looking at each other. The air was so thick with unsaid things I could barely breathe.

Inside the apartment, the silence was profound. It was the silence of absence. Priya’s vibrant energy was gone. Deep’s safe, dull presence was gone. It was just the two of us and the ticking clock.

I busied myself in the kitchen, boiling water, adding ginger and cardamom to the pot. My hands were shaking. I could feel him behind me, a presence so large it seemed to fill the entire doorway. He wasn’t sitting. He was leaning against the frame, watching me.

“She really is scared of ghosts, huh?” he said, his tone unreadable.

“It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid. Fear is fear.”

I poured the tea into two mugs, my back still to him. “You can add sugar.” I finally turned and handed him his mug. Our fingers brushed. A spark, sharp and bright, jolted up my arm. I flinched. He didn’t.

We took the tea to the living room. He sat on one end of the sofa, I sat on the other, a careful meter of space between us. We sipped in silence. The only sound was the distant, intermittent honking of traffic. I could feel the heat of his body from here.

“Rohan?” I said again, my voice barely a whisper.

He looked at me over the rim of his mug. “Yeah?”

“Can you… stay? Not in my room or anything!” I added quickly, my face flushing. “Just… on the sofa. Just for tonight. I’m just… I’m really scared.”

He put his mug down on the coffee table with a definitive clink. He ran a hand over his face, a gesture of pure exhaustion and conflict. “Anya, no. This is a bad idea.”

“I know. It’s just… I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll be up all night, jumping at every sound. Please. As a friend.” I was pushing it. I was exploiting his kindness, his protective instinct. I was a terrible person. I didn’t care.

He resisted. A lot. He talked about Priya. He talked about boundaries. He talked about how it looked. With every reasonable, righteous objection, my hope dwindled. He was going to leave. He was going to walk out that door and I would be left here with this ache, this frantic, unfulfilled energy.

Finally, he sighed, a sound of utter defeat. “Fine. Okay. Fine. I’ll sleep on the sofa. But you,” he pointed a finger at me, his expression serious, “you sleep in your room. With the door closed. Understood?”

Relief, sweet and potent, flooded my veins. “Understood. Thank you, Rohan. Really.”

I got him a pillow and a spare blanket. They smelled of our cupboard, of naphthalene. I wished they smelled of me. I wished I could give him my own pillow, the one my hair was tangled in every night.

“Goodnight,” I said, lingering at my bedroom door.

“Goodnight, Anya,” he said, not looking at me. He was already pulling his t-shirt off over his head. My breath caught. His back was to me, a landscape of sculpted muscle and shadow in the dim light from the window. I quickly slipped into my room and closed the door, leaning against it, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.

I was in my room. He was on the sofa. The plan was in place. And it was the most terrifying plan I had ever concocted.

I waited. I listened to the sounds of him settling in. The creak of the sofa springs. The rustle of the blanket. Then, silence. I waited for what felt like an eternity, watching the digital clock on my bedside table change its numbers: 12:17… 12:43… 1:02…

The fear of ghosts was gone. Replaced by a much more visceral fear. The fear of my own courage. Or was it recklessness? It didn’t matter. The desire was a drumbeat in my blood, a throbbing between my legs that was more insistent than any rational thought.

This was my chance. The only chance. The apartment was empty. The city was asleep. He was here, just feet away.

I got out of bed. I didn't turn on the light. The streetlamp outside my window cast the room in a pale, orange glow. I went to my cupboard. I knew exactly what I was going to wear. A thin, black crop top, soft from countless washes. It was short, ending just below my breasts. And a pair of grey shorts. The kind you sleep in. They were so short that the pockets hung out from the hem. I wasn't wearing a bra. I wasn't wearing panties.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were huge, dark pools of nervous energy. My hair was a mess. My nipples were hard peaks, visible through the soft fabric of the top. This was it. The point of no return.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, turned the doorknob, and stepped out.

The living room was darker, the curtains drawn. I could just make out his form on the sofa, a large, still shape under the blanket. My heart was a wild bird trapped in my ribs. I walked softly across the cool marble floor until I was standing right beside him.

He was asleep. Or he seemed to be. His face was relaxed in sleep, the hard lines softened. He looked younger. Innocent. I was about to shatter that innocence. I leaned over him, my hair brushing his chest.

"Rohan," I whispered.

His eyes flew open. They were instantly alert, not a trace of sleep in them. He blinked, his gaze unfocused for a second, then it dropped. It dropped from my face, down my neck, and landed on my chest. On my breasts, barely covered by the thin fabric of the crop top, the shape of my nipples stark and obvious in the dim light.

He jerked back, a sharp intake of breath. "Anya. What the hell?" His voice was a gravelly rasp, thick with sleep and shock.

"I couldn't sleep," I said, my own voice trembling. "Do you… do you want to watch a movie or something?"

He just stared at me, his eyes wide. He was looking at me like he’d never seen me before. Like I was a stranger. Or a feast. The blanket had pooled around his waist, and I could see the hard, flat plane of his stomach, the line of hair leading down. I forced my eyes back to his face.

He didn't speak for a long time. The silence stretched, taut and electric. I could see the pulse hammering in his neck. I could see the conflict raging in his eyes. The last vestiges of his resistance.

"Okay," he finally said, the word a low growl. "A movie."

He threw the blanket off and stood up in one fluid, powerful motion. He was wearing only his boxers. black, low-slung. And the outline of him… God. Priya wasn’t lying. He was big. Not just big. He was a revelation. A thick, heavy length straining against the cotton, curving upwards. My mouth went dry.

I fumbled for the remote, turning on the TV. The sudden blue light illuminated the room, making everything feel surreal, like a dream. I sat on one end of the sofa, pulling a large, soft throw blanket over my legs. He sat on the other end. I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

I scrolled through the options, my mind blank. I couldn’t have told you what was on the screen. I landed on some random English movie, a romantic comedy. It didn't matter. The movie was just noise, just flickering light. The real drama was happening on this sofa.

For ten minutes, we sat in silence, pretending to watch. The space between us was a living thing. I could feel every atom of it. I shifted, letting my leg, under the blanket, brush against his.

He didn't move away.

I did it again, letting my calf rest against his. A deliberate touch.

I heard his breath hitch.

Slowly, so slowly, I slid my hand under the blanket. I didn't look at him. My eyes were glued to the screen where two people were having a perfectly chaste, scripted kiss. I moved my hand across the cushion, until my fingertips found the hard, warm muscle of his thigh.

He went completely still.

I let my hand rest there, feeling the incredible heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his boxers. I could feel the power in that single muscle, coiled and ready. I began to move my fingers, a slow, tentative stroke.

"Anya," he warned, his voice dangerously low.

I ignored him. I was past the point of listening. I slid my hand higher, up the inside of his thigh. He was tense, every fiber of his being rigid. My fingers brushed against the hard, hot length of him through his boxers.

A sharp, guttural sound escaped his throat. It was the sound of a dam breaking.

In one swift, violent motion, he turned. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, his grip firm, almost painful. His eyes were blazing, all pretense of resistance gone, replaced by a raw, hungry need that mirrored my own.

"Is this what you want?" he snarled, his face inches from mine.

"Yes," I breathed. It was barely a whisper, but it was the truest thing I had ever said.

That single word shattered the last of his control.

He moved so fast it stole my breath. He didn't kiss me. He devoured me. His mouth crashed down on mine, not with tenderness, but with a desperate, consuming hunger. It was nothing like Deep's careful, polite kisses. This was a claiming. His tongue plunged into my mouth, tasting of sleep and chai and pure, unadulterated man. I met his ferocity with my own, my hands tangling in his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer.

The blanket was kicked away, forgotten on the floor. He was on top of me, his weight pressing me into the sofa cushions, a weight I had dreamed of for months. It was crushing and perfect. I could feel the hard ridge of his erection against my thigh, a brand of his desire. My legs wrapped around his waist of their own volition, locking him to me.

His mouth left mine, trailing a searing path down my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making me gasp. His hands were everywhere, rough and demanding. One hand slid under my crop top, his palm scorching against my bare skin. He cupped my breast, his thumb circling my nipple, a rough, calloused touch that sent lightning straight to my core. I arched into his hand, a moan tearing from my throat.

"Quiet," he growled against my skin, but it was a joke, a dark, thrilling joke because he was making sounds too, low groans that vibrated through his chest into mine.

He pulled the crop top over my head and tossed it aside. His eyes darkened as he looked down at my bare breasts. "Fuck, Anya," he breathed, before lowering his head and taking a nipple into his mouth.

The sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, I cried out. His tongue was hot and wet, laving, sucking, his teeth providing just the right edge of pain. It was nothing like the timid, almost clinical way Deep touched me. This was worship and consumption all at once. His other hand slid down, over my stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic waistband of my shorts. He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask. His fingers delved into the wet heat between my legs.

I bucked against his hand, my hips moving of their own accord. I was so wet, so ready for him. He groaned, his fingers sliding through my slickness, finding the swollen, aching center of me.

"You're so fucking wet for me," he muttered, his voice thick with awe and lust. "You've been thinking about this."

"Yes," I gasped, my eyes rolling back. "Always. Every day."

He pushed a finger inside me, and I clenched around him, a tight, desperate grip. It was so much more than just a finger; it was a promise of what was to come. He added a second finger, stretching me, preparing me, his thumb circling my clit in a rhythm that was maddening. I was panting, my nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, my world narrowing to the point where his hand met my body.

"I can't wait," I begged, my voice broken. "Rohan, please."

He withdrew his hand, and I whimpered at the loss. He shifted, kneeling between my legs on the sofa, and hooked his fingers into the waistband of my shorts and panties. In one sharp tug, he pulled them both down my legs and threw them across the room. Then he stood up, just for a moment, and shoved his own boxers down.

And there he was. Fully, completely naked in the flickering blue light of the television.

Priya hadn't been exaggerating. He was magnificent. Thick and long and veined, curving up towards his stomach, the tip already glistening. He was everything Deep wasn't. He was primal, potent, a little terrifying. My body throbbed in anticipation.

He came back down over me, bracing himself on his arms. His eyes locked with mine. There was no tenderness in them now, only a fierce, blazing need. "This is what you wanted, right?" he asked again, his voice a raw whisper.

"God, yes," I moaned, reaching down to guide him to me.

He didn't need guidance. He positioned himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against my wetness. He paused, for just a heartbeat, his eyes searching mine. In that pause, I saw it all—the last flicker of guilt, the acknowledgment of the line we were crossing, the sheer, undeniable force of the desire that had brought us here.

Then he pushed inside.

And my world exploded.

It wasn't a gentle entry. It was a claiming. A filling. He was so big, so much more than Deep, that there was a sharp, stretching burn for a moment, a pain that was instantly swallowed by a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. I cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was smothered by his mouth on mine.

He stilled, buried deep inside me, letting me adjust. "Okay?" he breathed against my lips.

I could only nod, my eyes squeezed shut, my entire being focused on the feeling of him filling me so completely. It was more than physical. It was like he was plugging a hole in my soul I hadn't even known was there.

Then he began to move.

And it was nothing like the quiet, rhythmic rocking I was used to. This was a fuck. A raw, passionate, desperate coupling. He set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust a jolt that shook me to my core. The sofa creaked beneath us, a frantic rhythm accompanying the slap of our skin, our ragged breaths, and the soft, wet sounds of our joining.

He was everywhere. His smell filled my lungs. The taste of his skin was on my tongue. The sight of his face, contorted in pleasure above me, was burned into my retinas. The sound of his groans, my whimpers, was a symphony of sin. The feel of him, deep inside me, stretching me, filling me, hitting a place Deep had never even brushed against.

"Oh god, Rohan," I moaned, my head thrashing from side to side. "Right there. Don't stop."

He growled, a low, animal sound, and drove into me harder, deeper. One of his hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head back, exposing my throat to his hungry mouth. The other hand slid under my ass, lifting my hips to meet his thrusts, allowing him to go even deeper.

I was losing my mind. The pleasure was a tidal wave, building and building, threatening to drown me. I was saying things, filthy things, begging him, praising him, my voice a stranger's. I'd never been like this. I'd never felt this free, this wild, this utterly consumed.

"I've wanted this," he grunted, his breath hot in my ear. "Since the first day I saw you in that fucking yellow dress. I've wanted to be inside you."

His words were the final push. The coil of pleasure in my belly tightened to a breaking point. My back arched off the sofa, my muscles seizing. A scream was torn from my throat, a raw, ragged sound of pure ecstasy as I came, my inner walls clenching around him in violent, rhythmic pulses. The world went white behind my eyelids, a supernova of sensation that wiped out every thought, every fear, every ghost.

Feeling me climax around him sent him over the edge. With a final, deep, grinding thrust and a guttural roar that was my name—"Anya!"—he emptied himself inside me. I felt the hot, pulsing release, a final, intimate claim.

He collapsed on top of me, his full weight a welcome anchor. We were both slick with sweat, panting, our hearts hammering against each other in a frantic, synchronized rhythm. The only sound in the room was our ragged breathing and the inane chatter of the romantic comedy still playing on the TV.

He didn't pull out immediately. He stayed inside me, softening, his face buried in my neck. I could feel the beat of his heart slowing against my chest. My hands traced slow, lazy circles on his sweaty back. I didn't want to move. I didn't want this moment to end. The guilt was there, waiting in the wings, a cold specter. But for now, it was held at bay by the warm, satiated glow that enveloped me.

After a long time, he shifted, sliding out of me. The loss was physical. He rolled onto his side, pulling me with him so my back was against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me. We lay like that on the narrow, creaking sofa, tangled together in the aftermath.

Neither of us spoke. What was there to say? We had crossed a line from which there was no return. We had betrayed two people we supposedly cared about. We had shattered the fragile peace of our shared home.

And as I lay there in the circle of his arms, his scent embedded in my skin, his release drying on my thighs, I knew one thing with absolute, terrifying certainty.

It was worth it.

Every sinful, treacherous second of it was worth it. The ghosts were gone. For the first time in my life, I wasn't scared of the dark. I was the dark. And it was the most alive I had ever felt.

October 18th

The world has a new axis, and it’s the memory of his weight on me. I’m moving through my days in a haze, my body a foreign country I’ve only just discovered. The apartment is still empty, but the silence is different now. It’s not a silence of absence; it’s a silence of presence. It’s full of him. The ghost of his smell on my sheets, the echo of his groan in the living room, the indentation his body left on the sofa cushion that I run my fingers over when I pass by, like a pilgrim at a shrine.

He left before the sun came up. The slide of the door, the soft click of the lock. No words. Just the heat of his mouth on my shoulder, a final, bruising kiss that felt like a brand. A promise of complicity. Then, silence.

I lay there for an hour, maybe two, naked and tangled in the throw blanket, staring at the ceiling. My body felt well-used, sore in places Deep had never even touched. A pleasant, throbbing ache between my legs, a faint tenderness on my breasts from his stubble and his hungry mouth. I felt… claimed. Ruined. Reborn.

The guilt came, of course. It slithered in with the first grey light of dawn, a cold, slimy thing. Priya. Deep. Their faces floated in my mind. Priya, laughing, her head thrown back. Deep, handing me a cup of tea with that earnest, trusting look. I felt a physical twist of nausea. I am a terrible person. A cliché. The treacherous friend.

But then I’d shift my legs and feel the subtle, lingering soreness, and the memory of his possession would flood back, so vivid and potent it would eclipse the shame. The way he looked at me when he was buried inside me, like he was seeing the real, raw, hungry core of me for the first time and wasn’t afraid of it. He wasn’t just fucking my body; he was fucking the loneliness out of me, the fear, the quiet desperation. He made me feel powerful in my surrender.

My phone buzzed. A text from Deep.

Landed. Miss you. This wedding is going to be so boring without you. x

The words were like a splash of ice water. I typed back, my fingers clumsy.

Miss you too. Hope it’s not too chaotic. x

A lie. Every letter was a lie. I didn’t miss him. I missed the weight of another man still imprinted on my skin.

I spent the day in a state of heightened sensitivity. Every sound was a potential precursor to his return. The shower felt like a ritual, washing the evidence of him from my skin, and I hated it. I wanted to marinate in his scent forever. I ordered food but couldn’t eat. My body was still full of him.

The evening drew in, long and purple. The fear of ghosts was a forgotten joke. The only thing I was scared of now was that he wouldn’t come back. That it had been a one-time, heat-of-the-moment mistake for him.

At 8 PM, my phone buzzed again. Not Deep. This time, it was a name that sent a jolt straight to my core.

Rohan.

The message was simple. Brutally so.

You okay?

My heart hammered against my ribs. Okay? I was levitating. I was disintegrating. I was the farthest thing from okay.

I typed, deleted, typed again.

Yes. You?

The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. The suspense was torture.

My place. 30 mins.

It wasn’t a question. It was a command. And every cell in my body was wired to obey. This was it. The point of no return wasn’t last night on the sofa. It was right now, in my quiet bedroom, as I typed my reply.

Okay.

I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t dress up. I put on a simple, sleeveless cotton kurti and leggings. I looked… normal. Wholesome. The perfect disguise for a girl on her way to commit a beautiful, repeated sin.

His apartment was in the next building over. I’d never been inside. It felt more illicit than my own home, a secret fortress. He opened the door before I could even knock. He was wearing a loose pair of track pants and nothing else. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered. He didn’t smile. His eyes did that slow, burning sweep of my body, and then he stepped back, letting me in.

The apartment was starkly male. A large TV, a gaming console, a single, massive leather sofa. A pair of dumbbells in the corner. It smelled of him. That clean, male scent with an undercurrent of something wilder.

The door clicked shut behind me, and the lock turned. The sound was final.

He didn’t move to touch me. He just stood there, leaning against the door, watching me. The air was thick with everything we hadn’t said.

“So,” he said, his voice low.

“So,” I echoed, my voice barely a whisper.

“This is fucked up, Anya.” He stated it as a fact.

“I know.”

“Deep is my friend.”

“I know.”

“And Priya…” He trailed off, running a hand through his damp hair. A gesture of frustration. Of conflict.

I took a step towards him. Then another. I stopped just inches from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. I could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat. I could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw. I lifted my hand and pressed my palm flat against his sternum. His skin was warm, solid. His heart thudded against my palm, a strong, steady rhythm.

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked, my eyes locked on his.

His hand came up and covered mine, pressing it harder against his chest. His eyes darkened, the conflict in them snuffed out by a pure, hot blaze of desire.

“No,” he growled.

And that was all the permission I needed. Or he needed.

This time, it wasn’t a frantic, desperate coupling on a squeaky sofa. This was slower. More deliberate. A conscious choice to dive deeper into the sin.

He led me to his bedroom. It was even more sparse. A large bed with a grey duvet. A wardrobe. That was it. The world outside ceased to exist.

He turned me around, his hands on my shoulders, and pulled me back against his chest. His mouth found the sensitive spot just below my ear. “Last night,” he murmured, his lips moving against my skin, “was about you being scared. Tonight,” his hands slid down my arms, his fingers intertwining with mine, “is about you being brave.”

He undressed me with a slow, agonizing precision that was its own form of torture. The kurti over my head. The leggings peeled down my hips. He knelt in front of me as he pulled them off my feet, his eyes level with my stomach. He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss just below my navel, and my knees almost buckled.

When I was naked, he stood up and looked at me. Really looked. In the harsh light of his bedroom, I felt exposed. Vulnerable. But his gaze wasn’t critical. It was reverent. Hungry.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, the words rough, like they were torn from him.

He laid me down on the cool, crisp duvet and followed me down, covering my body with his. This time, the kiss was different. It was deeper, more exploring. It was a conversation. His tongue mapped the inside of my mouth, and I answered with my own. His hands roamed my body, not with frantic need, but with a possessive curiosity, learning the curves and hollows, the places that made me gasp, the spots that made me moan.

He took his time. He kissed the inside of my wrists, the delicate skin of my elbows. He moved down my body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire. When his head dipped between my legs, I cried out, my hands fisting in the duvet.

“Rohan…”

“Shhh,” he whispered, his breath hot against my inner thigh. “Let me.”

And he did. He worshipped me with his mouth. It wasn’t just a prelude; it was a main event. He licked and sucked and probed with a focused intensity that drove me out of my mind. He held my hips down when I bucked, his grip firm, unyielding. He was in control, and the surrender was the most potent drug I’d ever tasted. The pleasure built, a slow, coiling tension, until it shattered me into a million pieces, my scream muffled by my own arm.

Before I could even come down, he was moving up my body, positioning himself. His eyes were black with lust, his face a mask of primal need. He entered me in one smooth, deep thrust that stole the air from my lungs. I was still pulsing from my climax, hypersensitive, and the feeling of him filling me again was almost too much to bear.

He set a deep, rhythmic pace, his eyes locked on mine. This was different from the frantic fucking of the night before. This was… profound. Each stroke was a deliberate act of possession. Each groan was a confession. I wrapped my legs high around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to fuse with him.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.

I did. I saw myself reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. I saw the wanton, passionate creature I became with him. I wasn’t Anya, the scared girl with the nice boyfriend. I was Anya, the woman who took what she wanted. The woman who could bring a man like Rohan to his knees.

The orgasm built again, slower this time, a deep, rolling wave that started in my core and radiated outwards. I felt it in my toes, in my fingertips, in the roots of my hair. I chanted his name, a broken prayer, as it crashed over me. He followed me over the edge with a guttural cry, his body slamming into mine one last, perfect time as he spilled himself inside me.

We collapsed, a tangled, sweating, breathless mess. He didn’t roll away immediately. He stayed inside me, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot on my skin. We lay like that for a long time, the only sound our gradually slowing heartbeats.

When he finally moved, he didn’t go far. He pulled me against him, my back to his front, his arm a heavy, comforting weight around my waist. We didn’t speak. We just breathed together in the dark.

And in that silence, a new addiction was born. It wasn’t just about the sex, as earth-shattering as it was. It was about this. The aftermath. The quiet intimacy. The feeling of being seen, truly seen, in all my flawed, hungry glory.

I knew, with a terrifying and thrilling certainty, that I was in deep, deep trouble. This wasn’t a fling. This was a freefall.

And I had no desire whatsoever to grab a branch on the way down.

October 25th

A week. It’s been a week since they left, a week since the world tilted on its axis. A week of living in a secret, parallel universe where I am Rohan’s.

Deep calls every day. His voice is a tinny, distant thing from another life. I answer, I make the right noises. “I miss you.” “Be safe.” “Yes, I’m eating.” The lies come easier now. They’ve formed a callus over my conscience. I feel a pang, a sharp, guilty stab, when he tells me he loves me. But it’s a distant pain, like hearing about a tragedy in a far-off country. It doesn’t feel real. This feels real. Rohan’s hands on my body, his smell on my skin, the low rumble of his laugh in the dark.

Our days have fallen into a pattern. A delicious, deceptive routine of sin. I spend my days in my empty apartment, pretending to work, pretending to be the girl waiting for her boyfriend. But my body is always humming, waiting. The text always comes in the evening.

Come over.

Or sometimes, just,

Now.

And I go. Every time. Like a moth to a flame. To his apartment, to his bed, to his body.

The sex has evolved. It’s not just frantic or profound. It’s playful. It’s exploratory. He has a confidence in bed that borders on arrogance, and it’s the biggest turn-on. He knows what he’s doing, and he loves doing it to me.

One afternoon, he fucked me against his balcony door, the sheer curtains open, the sprawling, noisy city laid out before us. The risk of being seen by some anonymous neighbor in a high-rise a kilometer away sent a thrill through me so sharp I came almost the instant he entered me from behind, his hand clamped over my mouth to silence my screams.

Another time, he laid me on the kitchen counter, amidst the remnants of our takeout. He spread my legs and ate me out with a leisurely, decadent focus, while I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white, staring at the ceiling and sobbing with pleasure.

But it’s the quiet moments that are truly ruining me for anyone else. Waking up in his bed, his arm thrown possessively across my waist. Making chai in his silent kitchen, wearing nothing but his t-shirt. The way he sometimes just watches me, a strange, unreadable expression on his face that is part lust, part… something else. Something that feels dangerously close to affection.

I am learning his body like a new language. The small, raised scar on his knee from a childhood accident. The way he shivers when I trace the line of his spine with my fingernail. The specific sound of his breath catching when I take him in my mouth.

I am his student, his devotee, his secret.

And I have never been happier.

But a snake of doubt, of ugly comparison, has started to coil in my stomach. It started small, a whisper. And now it’s a roar.

It’s about Deep.

The sex with Deep. Or rather, the lack of it. The lack of… everything.

Being with Rohan, being filled by him, has rewired my understanding of my own body. I now know what I’m capable of feeling. The screaming, mind-blowing, body-racking orgasms. The deep, full feeling of being stretched to my limit. The primal, animalistic need that he evokes in me.

With Deep… it was nothing. A gentle hum where there should have been an earthquake. A polite knock where there should have been a battering ram.

The last time we had sex, before he left, plays in my head on a loop now, but it’s a distorted, pathetic memory. His careful, almost clinical foreplay. The way he’d ask, “Is this okay?” every few minutes. The small, tidy erection that slipped inside me with an unassuming ease. The quiet, two-minute rocking. His soft sigh when he came. Me, lying underneath him, staring at the ceiling, feeling… nothing. A vague sense of relief that it was over. Sometimes, I’d fake a moan or two, just to hurry it along. I felt like a vessel. An empty, lonely vessel.

I never knew it could be any other way. I thought that was just what sex was. A pleasant, mildly intimate transaction between two people who cared for each other.

Rohan showed me I was wrong. He showed me that sex could be a conversation, a battle, a prayer, a scream into the void. He showed me that my body was not just a thing to be acted upon, but a instrument that could create a symphony of pleasure.

And with this new knowledge came a devastating realization. Deep’s dick was small. Not just in size, though that was now glaringly, laughably obvious. But in presence. In authority. It was… negligible.

The comparison is cruel and unfair, but I can’t stop it. It’s like comparing a candle to a forest fire. A sip of water to the entire ocean.

And this realization has birthed a new, strange, dark worship inside me. My obsession with Rohan has become a physical, devotional act. It’s not just when I’m with him. It’s all the time.

I started worshipping Rohan’s dick.

Whenever I get a chance to be with him, that’s my focus. My holy grail. I am insatiable. I want it in my mouth, in my hands, inside me. I love the weight of it, the silky skin over the iron-hard core. The way the tip beads with moisture when he’s aroused. The thick, prominent vein that runs along its length. I love the taste of him, salty and musky and uniquely Rohan. I love the power I feel when I have him in my mouth, feeling him grow even harder, listening to his breathing become ragged, feeling his hands fist in my hair. I love the helpless, guttural sounds he makes when he comes.

I am a priestess at the altar of his cock, and my worship is relentless.

And he… he was enjoying it. Of course he was. He was enjoying the different pussy, as crude as that sounds. A break from the familiar. A new playground. The thrill of the forbidden. I could see it in his eyes, a feral gleam of possession and pleasure. He’d groan, “Fuck, Anya, your pussy is so perfect,” and I’d preen, feeling a perverse sense of pride that I was better, tighter, wetter, more than Priya.

The thought of them together used to fill me with a sick jealousy. Now, it fuels my obsession. It turns me on.

Because I know a secret. I know that when he fucks her, he’s thinking of me. I can see it in the way he looks at me sometimes, a flicker of something that says, You’re the one I really want. He’s getting a pale imitation at home, and he knows it. I have the real thing.

One night, he was at our place, in Priya’s room. They thought I was asleep. The walls in our apartment are thin. I heard it. The headboard knocking against the wall. Priya’s high, theatrical moans. And Rohan’s low, grunting breaths.

I should have been devastated. I should have put a pillow over my head and cried.

Instead, I slipped my hand into my panties.

I lay in my dark room, listening to them, and I touched myself. I imagined it was me in there. I imagined it was my moans he was coaxing out. I imagined the look on his face, the feel of him moving inside her. And it was the hottest thing I’d ever experienced. The eavesdropping, the shared secret, the knowledge that I was the one he truly craved… it made me come in seconds, a silent, violent climax that left me breathless and ashamed and desperately hungry for more.

That’s when the addiction truly crystallized. It wasn’t just about the physical act with him anymore. It was about the entire, twisted ecosystem of our deception. The secrecy was an aphrodisiac. The comparison was my fuel.

And it led me to my darkest act yet.

The next morning, after Priya had left for work, the apartment was quiet. Rohan had left early too. I stood outside Priya’s room, my heart hammering. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was a violation of a sacred, sisterly trust. But the compulsion was stronger than my morality.

I went in.

Her room was neat, smelling of her perfume—a sweet, floral scent that suddenly seemed cloying and weak. The bed was made. But on the floor, beside her laundry basket, was a pair of her panties. A lacy, black pair. They were inside out.

I picked them up. They were slightly damp. And there, in the gusset, was a sticky, pearlescent patch. His cum.

My mouth watered.

I don’t know what came over me. A need for a connection so intimate, so perverse, that it would transcend even this. A need to taste him, even when he was mixed with her. To claim that part of him too.

I brought the fabric to my face. I inhaled. I could smell her, the floral perfume, and underneath it, the unmistakable, musky scent of his release. Without another thought, I brought the damp patch to my mouth and licked it.

The taste was complex. Sweet from her, salty and bitter from him. It was the taste of their union, and of my ultimate betrayal. It was the most depraved thing I had ever done.

And it made me wetter than I’d ever been.

I am addicted to Rohan. It’s a sickness. A beautiful, consuming sickness. When Deep calls, I close my eyes and imagine it’s Rohan’s voice. When I walk through the market, I imagine it’s Rohan’s hand in mine. My world has shrunk to the space between his bed and my obsession.

The other night, I tried to masturbate, thinking of Rohan, but my mind, in its treacherous way, conjured Deep’s face. The feeling evaporated instantly. I felt nothing but a cold emptiness. So I did what I had to do. I closed my eyes, and I superimposed Rohan over Deep. I imagined it was Rohan’s large, skilled hands on my body, Rohan’s thick cock inside me, Rohan’s possessive growl in my ear.

And I came. A desperate, lonely, powerful climax that left me sobbing into my pillow.

I am lost. I am found. I am a woman torn between the man I should love and the man who has shown me what love, or at least what lust, truly feels like. The ghosts are gone. But I’ve become one myself—a haunted, hungry ghost, forever chasing the phantom of a feeling that I know, in the deepest, most honest part of my soul, cannot last.