Chapter 9: Virtual Vengeance - Part 1
The silence in Darshan’s bedroom was a different creature than the one in his parents’ part of the house. Here, it was a thick, expectant blanket, muffling the distant sounds of a television comedy and the clatter of pans from the kitchen. His door was locked. The only light came from his laptop screen, casting a blue pallor over the chaos of his room—the tower of cardboard boxes yet to be unpacked, the Slumdog Millionaire poster with its curled corners, the precarious stack of books on his nightstand threatening to avalanche.
Riddhi’s face glowed on the screen, a pixellated grin in the dimness. She was in her own room, a scarf draped over her lamp to soften the light. A week had passed since the car. A week of strained silences across two households, of meals eaten without eye contact, of a fragile, bewildered peace.
“So then Mrs. Mehra says, ‘Beta, if the match is good, even a cactus will flower,’” Riddhi was saying, her voice a low, conspiratorial crackle through the speakers.
Darshan chuckled, rubbing his eyes. He was stretched on his bed, shirtless, the day’s fatigue melting away under the warmth of her nonsense. “And you said?”
“I said, ‘Aunty, my cactus only flowers when I forget to water it for six months. Is that the secret to a happy marriage?’ She hasn’t called Maa since.”
He laughed louder, the sound rich and full in the quiet room. This was their new normal. The stolen digital intimacy. The defiance had softened into something like a shared, private joke about the world outside his locked door.
Her expression shifted, the mischief in her eyes deepening. She leaned closer to her camera, the screen filling with the delicate arch of her brows, the full curve of her lower lip. “Tired?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“Just code fatigue. Brain’s mush.”
“Need a distraction?” Her tongue darted out, wetting her lip.
“Always.”
She glanced over her shoulder, a theatrical check for eavesdroppers, though her door was surely locked too. When she looked back, her gaze was heavy-lidded, direct. “I was thinking about tomorrow,” she murmured. “Kal subah… tumhare ghar aake tere saath shower lena chahiye.”
The proposition hung in the digital space between them. Darshan felt a familiar, immediate tightening in his groin. “Oh yeah?”
“Haan. Teri maa knock karegi… ‘Darshan, breakfast ready hai,’” Riddhi continued, her voice adopting a high-pitched, perfect imitation of Amita’s anxious knock. Her own hand came up, miming a rapping on a door. “Aur hum dono nange chilayenge.” And we’ll both scream naked.
The image flashed in his mind: steam, slick skin, her back against the cold tiles, his mouth on her throat to stifle the cry as his mother’s knocking echoed through the bathroom door. It was a dangerous, delicious fantasy, woven from the very fabric of their constraints.
“You’re evil,” he breathed, his hand drifting to the waistband of his track pants.
“You love it.” She bit her lip, her eyes tracking the movement of his hand. “What are you wearing?”
“Nothing interesting.”
“Take it off.”
His grin returned, wolfish. “You first.”
There was a pause, a charged silence filled only with the faint hum of his laptop fan. Then, without breaking eye contact, Riddhi reached for the hem of her oversized t-shirt. She pulled it up slowly, revealing the smooth plain of her stomach, the curve of her waist, the lace edge of a black bra. She tugged it over her head and tossed it aside. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders. In the soft, scarfed light, her skin looked like honey.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice husky.
Darshan shoved his track pants and boxers down in one rough push, kicking them off the bed. He was already half-hard, but the cool air of the room and the raw hunger on her pixelated face made him swell fully, achingly. He stroked himself once, a slow, firm pull from root to tip, never looking away from the camera.
A soft gasp came through the speakers. “Fuck,” she whispered. “I wish that was my hand.”
“I wish it was your mouth.”
She let out a shaky breath and reached behind her back. The clasp of her bra gave way. She shrugged the straps off her shoulders and let it fall away, revealing her breasts, full and heavy, nipples puckered and dark. She cupped them, her thumbs brushing over the peaks, her head tilting back slightly.
“See what you do?” she murmured.
He was stroking himself in earnest now, a lazy, rhythmic motion. “I want to see all of you.”
She stood up, stepping back so the camera captured her from the waist up. Then her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her shorts and her panties. She bent, pushing them down her legs in a single, graceful motion, and stepped out of them. She was completely naked now, a stark, beautiful silhouette against the warm light of her room. One hand came down, fingers sliding through the dark thatch of hair between her legs.
“I’m wet,” she said, the words blunt and hot. “Thinking about your shower. Thinking about your cock. Fuck, Darshan, I can smell you from here.”
His rhythm faltered, the crude poetry of her lust punching the air from his lungs. “Tell me.”
“I’m thinking about turning the water so hot it stings, and you pushing me against the wall. Your hands are on my ass, spreading me open. You’re so fucking hard, and you just… shove it in. No gentle, no slow. Just one rough, deep thrust because you can’t wait.”
He groaned, his fist moving faster on his shaft, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And your maa is knocking, knock knock knock, and you’ve got your hand over my mouth, but I’m screaming into your palm, my pussy clamping down on you with every thrust. You’re fucking me like you’re trying to ruin me, like you’re trying to paint the tiles with me.” Her own fingers were working between her legs now, a urgent, circular motion he could just make out. Her breath hitched. “And I’m coming, I’m coming so hard I see stars, and you’re grunting in my ear, telling me you’re gonna fill me up, that you’re gonna pump your fucking load so deep inside me it’ll leak out all day to remind me who I belong to.”
“You belong to me,” he growled, the possessive words tearing from him. The fantasy, her voice, the sight of her touching herself—it was a sensory overload. His balls drew up tight.
“Say it again.”
“You’re mine, Riddhi. This cunt is mine.” The vulgarity, once a rebellion, now felt like a sacrament between them.
“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, her hips rocking against her hand. “I’m coming right now, fuck, Darshan, I’m—”
Her back arched, a silent cry on her lips. He watched her face contort in release, watched her shudder, and it pushed him over the edge. With a guttural curse, he came, streaks of white painting his stomach and chest, his body rigid then collapsing into the mattress, breathless.
For a long minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing, syncing across the digital divide. The world outside the laptop—the house, the expectations, the fragile peace—faded to a distant hum.
Riddhi eventually crawled back into frame, pulling her t-shirt on, her face soft and sated. She smiled, a real one, not the wicked grin from before. “So,” she said, her voice returning to normal. “Tomorrow. Seven AM. Your bathroom.”
He laughed, a spent, happy sound. “You’re actually crazy.”
“You’ll be there.” It wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “I’ll be there.”
They talked for a while longer, the conversation drifting to mundane things—a work deadline, a funny meme, her father’s tentative attempts at normal conversation. The shared fantasy had done its work; it had reinforced the walls around their private world.
After they said goodbye and the screen went dark, Darshan lay in the glow of the dead monitor. The smell of sex was strong in the room. The mess around him seemed less like chaos and more like a nest. He thought of the coming morning, the steam, the risk, the feel of her real skin under his hands, not pixels on a screen.
A knock at his door made him jump.
“Darshan? Still awake?” It was his mother’s voice, tinged with its usual worry.
He grabbed a t-shirt from the floor and wiped his stomach clean, hastily pulling the covers over himself. “Yeah, Ma. Just finishing up some work.”
“Don’t sleep too late. You need rest.”
“I know, Ma. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, beta.”
He listened to her footsteps retreat. The silence settled back, but the anticipation for the morning thrummed in his veins, a counter-rhythm to the quiet house. He looked at the empty laptop screen and grinned in the darkness. Tomorrow, they wouldn’t have to imagine.