Chapter 2: Washroom Confession After Club Betrayal
The bass from the club was a physical thing, a throbbing pulse in the floorboards that traveled up through the soles of Divakar’s shoes and into his teeth. He’d come out with a few guys from work, a mindless Friday night blur of overpriced vodka and shouted conversations. He felt untethered, the image of Soumya’s smile over her coffee cup still fresh from that morning, a sweet guilt he was trying to drown.
That’s when he saw her.
She was a shock of kinetic energy in the strobe-lit dark, dancing with a tall, lanky guy who seemed more interested in the bottle in his hand than the woman in front of him. She had a gym-sculpted body poured into a tiny silver dress—big, perky breasts straining the sequined fabric, a juicy, rounded ass that swished with hypnotic rhythm as she moved. Her hair was a wild dark cloud around her face, her laugh bright and forced.
Their eyes met across the sweating, undulating crowd. Just for a second. Her gaze was sharp, clear even in the haze. She held it, then deliberately looked away, turning her back to him, dismissing his presence entirely. Divakar felt a sting of foolishness and took a long swig of his drink.
An hour later, the dynamic had shifted. The lanky boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, Divakar would soon learn—was leaned against the bar, his mouth close to the ear of a blonde in a glittering top. The girl in the silver dress, Tanya, watched. Divakar saw the exact moment the realization hit her. Her bubbly energy solidified into something hard and dangerous. She drained a shot glass, slammed it down, and her eyes, now blazing, swept the room.
They found him again.
This time, there was no dismissal. There was a raw, furious invitation. She glared at him, her chest heaving, then turned and stormed toward the back hall marked for restrooms. The message was clear as a scream.
Divakar didn’t think. He weaved through the crowd, the sweet guilt of the morning replaced by a darker, more immediate heat. The hallway was a grimy artery, the fluorescent light flickering like a bad nerve. He could hear the thump of the music through the wall, a muffled heartbeat. The door to the single, unisex bathroom was just swinging shut.
He pushed it open.
She was facing the cracked mirror, her palms flat on the stained porcelain sink. She looked at his reflection, her expression a storm of tequila and betrayal.
“Get out,” she said, but it lacked conviction.
“You looked like you might break something,” he said, his voice calm, a contrast to the chaos. “Thought I’d make sure it wasn’t the mirror. You could cut yourself.”
“I’ll cut him,” she spat, spinning around. The small room forced them into intimacy. He could smell the salt of her sweat, the synthetic peach of her perfume, the sharp tang of alcohol on her breath. “That fucking asshole. Three years. Talking about engagement last week. And he’s got his tongue in some random’s ear like a fucking dog.”
“His loss,” Divakar said, meaning it.
She stared at him, her eyes tracing his average features, finding something else there. The wit he’d used as a shield all his life. The attentive focus that made women feel like universes. Without another word, she moved.
It was sudden and violent. She grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the cotton, and yanked him fully into the room. He stumbled forward as she slammed the door shut behind him, her hand fumbling for the lock. The click was obscenely loud in the tiny space. Then her other hand was on the back of his neck, pulling his face down to hers, and her mouth crashed against his.
This wasn’t a kiss. It was an assault, a transfer of rage. Her tongue pushed past his lips, seeking, demanding. She tasted of lime and venom. Divakar met her force with his own, his hands coming up to grip her hips, his fingers digging into the firm, incredible swell of her ass through the thin dress. She moaned into his mouth, a sound of pure, furious need, and ground herself against the hard ridge already forming in his trousers.
“Fuck him,” she panted, breaking the kiss to bite at his lower lip, hard enough to sting. “Fuck you. Just fuck.”
Her hands were between them, clumsy and urgent, ripping at his belt buckle. The leather slithered free. His button popped. His zipper snarled down. She shoved her hand inside his boxers and her fingers closed around him. Her eyes flew wide for a second, feeling his length, his girth, already fully hard and throbbing in her grip.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, a different kind of fury in her voice now. A hungry one.
She dropped to her knees on the dirty tiles, the sequins of her dress scraping the floor. She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, deep, her lips stretching around his immense width. She sucked him like she was trying to draw the poison from her night, bobbing her head with a frantic, sloppy rhythm. One hand gripped the base of his shaft, the other kneaded his balls through the fabric. He looked down, watching her dark hair sway, hearing the wet, filthy sounds over the distant bass. He tangled his hands in her hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Tanya,” he groaned. He’d heard her friend shout her name earlier.
She pulled off with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his tip. “Shut up. Don’t talk.” She yanked his trousers and boxers down to his thighs, freeing him completely. Then she was on her feet, turning, bending over the sink. Her reflection, flushed and furious, watched him in the cracked glass. She hitched the short hem of her dress up around her waist, revealing a tiny black thong stretched over that phenomenal, rounded peach of an ass. She hooked her thumbs in the sides and peeled it down, just enough.
“Do it,” she snarled at his reflection. “Now. Before I think. Before he thinks.”
Divakar stepped forward, his hands running up the powerful, thick thighs she’d bared. He used his fingers to spread her, finding her already slick and hot. He positioned the broad, flushed head of his cock at her entrance, pressing slightly. She pushed back against him, impaling herself with a single, sharp thrust.
She was tight, phenomenally tight, her inner muscles clenching around him like a vise. She screamed, a short, choked sound swallowed by the music’s throb. Her head dropped, her back arching. He buried himself to the hilt inside her, feeling her body stretch to accommodate all nine inches of him. For a moment, neither moved, joined in a breathless, stolen conjunction.
Then he pulled back and drove into her again. And again.
It was a brutal, punishing rhythm. Each thrust slammed her hips against the porcelain sink. The mirror rattled. Her juices coated his balls and thighs. She reached back, one hand clawing at his hip, the other braced against the wall. “Harder,” she grunted. “Fucking ruin me.”
He obliged. He fucked her with deep, piston-like strokes, the slapping of skin on skin a sharp counterbeat to the distant music. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, one hand snaking around to her front, finding her clit, the other playing with her tits and pinching her nipples. He rubbed rough, tight circles. The other hand went to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming. She gasped, her breath hot on the dirty mirror.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Choke me. I don’t care.”
He increased the pressure on her throat, just enough to feel her pulse hammering against his palm. Her internal muscles began to flutter and spasm around his driving cock. Her climax built with the same violent intensity as her anger. It tore through her, a silent, shuddering quake that made her whole body seize. Her cunt milked him, convulsing in waves, pulling him deeper.
The sensation was too much. Divakar’s own control shattered. With a final, grinding thrust, he held himself deep and came, jetting his release into her with a hoarse cry. He pulsed inside her, long streams of hot cum filling her up as she continued to tremble around him.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the persistent, indifferent thump of the bass. The flickering light gleamed on the sweat on her spine.
Slowly, he softened, sliding out of her. A trickle of his cum followed, tracing a path down her inner thigh. She stayed bent over the sink, her head hanging. He gently pulled her thong back up, then smoothed her dress down. He tended to his own clothes, the silence growing heavy.
She finally straightened, turning to face him. The rage was gone, replaced by a hollow, spent emptiness. She looked at him, really looked, seeing the man, not just the instrument of her revenge.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice raw.
“Divakar.”
“Divakar.” She tested it. “I have a boyfriend. Well. I had a boyfriend. He’s probably still out there by the bar.” She gave a broken little laugh. “Fuck.”
“I know,” he said softly, and the kindness in his voice, so at odds with the raw sex of minutes before, seemed to disarm her more than anything.
She touched his cheek, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “You’re not what I expected.”
He caught her hand, kissed her palm. The lie was already forming, seamless and terrible. “Do you want to get out of here? Get some air that doesn’t smell like piss and poor decisions?”
Outside the bathroom door, in the club, her ex-boyfriend ordered another drink, oblivious. Inside, Tanya looked at Divakar, at the humble concern in his eyes, and felt the first dangerous thread of connection stitch itself into her heart.
“Yeah,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
The night air was a cold slap after the club’s humid womb. Tanya walked ahead, her silver dress shimmering under the streetlights like a discarded scales. Divakar followed, the ghost of Soumya’s warm coffee smile a faint, accusing echo beneath the potent musk of sex and sweat still clinging to his skin.
“Cab!” Tanya shouted, her arm slicing the air. A yellow sedan swerved to the curb.
They tumbled into the backseat, a tangle of limbs and charged silence. The driver grunted an address query, his eyes glancing at them in the rearview mirror. Divakar automatically gave the cross-street near his co-ed PG accommodation. “Just heading home,” he said, his voice normal, as if he hadn’t just taken a weeping stranger in a bathroom.
The car moved, the city blurring into streaks of amber and neon. Tanya stared out the window, her reflection a pale mask. Then she shifted, turning to him. The anger had melted into something more restless, more searching. “Your place,” she said, not asking. “I don’t want to be alone. And I definitely don’t want to go back to mine, where his shit is everywhere.”
“It’s just a PG. Single room. Not fancy,” he warned, the practical part of his brain sounding a faint alarm. He thought of the spare toothbrush, the lack of any trace of the other women. He was careful. He was always careful.
“Good,” she said, simple and final. “Stop at that store. I need beers. Many beers.”
They stopped at a brightly lit late-night convenience shop. The fluorescent glow was merciless. She bought a six-pack of strong IPA, he grabbed a bag of chips he didn’t want. The clerk didn’t look up from his phone. The transaction was swift, anonymous. Back in the cab, she cracked a can open immediately, the hiss loud in the quiet. She drank deeply, then offered it to him. He took a swig, the bitter hops coating his tongue.
His building was a nondescript box of a place, a “co-ed paying guest accommodation” that was essentially a warren of small rooms and shared, slightly greasy bathrooms. He led her up three flights of stairs, the sound of a television laugh track leaking from under one door. His room was, as promised, single and simple: a bed, a desk, a small fridge, a closet. It was scrupulously, intentionally generic. A bachelor’s cell with no history.
“It’s clean,” she observed, dropping the beer carrier on his desk with a thud. She kicked off her heels. “Impersonal, but clean.”
“I try,” he said, locking the door. The click felt louder than the one in the bathroom. This was a different kind of threshold.
She claimed the only chair, pulling another beer open. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. The frantic energy of the club was gone, replaced by a slower, more dangerous simmer. They talked. Or rather, she talked. He listened. He was good at that. She told him about the software bug that had consumed her week, about her boyfriend’s gradual disinterest, about her family in Dehradun who thought she was going to marry that asshole. Her phone buzzed incessantly on the desk, screen lighting up with calls and messages—Raj❤️, Raj❤️, Raj❤️.
Each buzz was a tiny convulsion in the room’s atmosphere. She ignored them, her eyes hardening each time. She drank another beer. Then she saw his small wooden box on the bookshelf. “You smoke?”
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Get it.”
He rolled two joints with practiced efficiency, the sweet, grassy smell of the weed mixing with the hops in the air. He lit one, took a hit, and passed it to her. She sucked the smoke deep, holding it, her cheeks hollowing, before exhaling a slow, steady plume toward the ceiling. The tension in her powerful shoulders began to unknot, replaced by a lazy, heavy-lidded gaze. They passed the joint back and forth until it was a tiny roach. They started the second one. The room grew soft at the edges. The buzz of her phone became a distant insect.
The alcohol and weed wove a warm, forgiving blanket around them. She laughed at a stupid joke he made about his failed pickles, a real laugh this time, throaty and unforced. She moved from the chair to sit beside him on the bed, their thighs touching. The space between them crackled, not with anger now, but with a thick, anticipatory heat.
“You’re not like most guys,” she slurred slightly, her head tilting to rest on his shoulder. “You listen. In the bathroom… you didn’t just take. You felt… present.”
Divakar’s heart clenched. This was the dangerous part. The part where they started to see him, to like him. The guilt was a cold stone in his gut, but his body was warming, responding to her proximity, the scent of her hair, the memory of her tight, wet heat.
Her hand landed on his thigh, fingers walking inward. She found him again, already thick and hardening under his shorts. She looked up at him, her eyes black and bottomless in the dim light. “I want to taste you properly,” she whispered, her voice husky with want. “Without the sink digging into my ribs.”
She pushed him back onto the bed and swung her leg over him, straddling his hips. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his shorts and briefs, yanking them down in one rough motion. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed against his stomach. She licked her lips, a slow, deliberate gesture.
“Fuck, you’re huge,” she breathed, not with fear, with sheer avarice.
She leaned down, but not for a kiss. Her mouth went to his chest, her tongue flicking a nipple before she trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down his abdomen. She took her time, a deliberate, teasing exploration that made his muscles jump. Then she was there. She didn’t just take him in her mouth. She worshipped him. She licked the entire length from root to tip, a slow, flat stroke that made him shudder. She swirled her tongue around the broad, sensitive head, collecting the bead of pre-cum that had welled there. She murmured, “So good,” against his skin, the vibration singing through his nerves.
Then she engulfed him. She took him deep, her throat opening, accepting inch after inch until her nose pressed into his pubic hair. Her eyes watered, but she held him there, humming. She pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva glistening, then dove back down, establishing a deep, rhythmical sucking. One hand worked the base of his shaft in a tight twist, the other cupped and rolled his balls with a gentle, knowing pressure. The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, and deliberate. She looked up at him, maintaining eye contact as she sucked, her expression one of focused, blissful conquest.
He tangled his hands in her hair, not forcing, just feeling the slide of his cock between her lips, the scrape of her teeth, the incredible suction. “Your mouth is incredible,” he groaned, his hips lifting off the bed slightly, fucking upward into the warm, willing cavern.
She pulled off with a final, lewd pop. “I want you inside me again,” she panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Everywhere. I want to feel all of you.”
She scrambled off him, shedding her silver dress, peeling off the black thong. In the dim light from the desk lamp, her body was a masterpiece of muscle and curve: the big, perky breasts with their hardened nipples, the narrow waist flaring to those powerful thighs and the spectacular, rounded ass. She was breathtaking. And she was pulling him up.
They fucked on the floor first, on the thin rug by the bed. Cowgirl. She rode him with a slow, grinding intensity, her head thrown back, her full breasts bouncing. She pinned her own nipples between her fingers, twisting them, her breath catching. “Yes, just like that, fill me up, you fucking fill me so good.”
They moved to the bed. Prone bone. He covered her from behind, sinking into her delicious, deep warmth, her ass a perfect pillow against his groin. He fucked her into the mattress, his pace steady and relentless, one hand under her, fingers finding her clit, the other braced beside her head. She turned her face, seeking his mouth, their tongues tangling as he drove into her.
“Flip over,” he grunted. “I want to see you.”
Doggy. On her knees, that glorious ass in the air, she looked back at him, her expression one of raw hunger. He entered her from behind, each thrust making her cry out. He reached around, pinching and pulling her nipples, his other hand gripping the thick muscle of her thigh. The slapping sounds were animalistic, primal. He felt the sweat drip down his spine.
“Choke me,” she begged, her voice muffled by the pillow. “Please.”
His hand went to her throat, applying pressure. She gasped, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his pistoning cock. “You like that, you filthy girl,” he growled, the words foreign and hot in his mouth. “You like being used.”
“Yes!” she screamed into the fabric, and her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shuddering wave that made her collapse forward. He followed, his own release tearing from him with a shout, pumping into her convulsing depths.
They were a slick, panting heap. But it wasn’t over. The weed and alcohol and sheer, desperate need had unlocked a bottomless hunger. Missionary. He laid her back, kissing her deeply, tasting herself on his lips. He pushed her thighs wide, so wide, and slid back into her swollen, used pussy. This was slower, deeper, a grinding connection that felt terrifyingly intimate. He kissed her eyelids, her throat, licked the salt from her collarbone. She wrapped her powerful legs around his back, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper with each stroke. She came again, quietly this time, a broken sob against his shoulder, her nails scratching red trails down his back.
“I want to taste you,” he murmured. “I want to taste you while I’m inside you.”
69. A tangled, hungry knot of limbs. Her mouth was on him again, sucking him back to full, aching hardness while his tongue delved into her, lapping at her mixed juices, her own climaxes, his own spend. The flavors were musky, salty, profoundly intimate. He felt her moans vibrate through his cock. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a feedback loop of pleasure.
It went on for hours. Positions blurred. The mattress squeaked. The empty beer cans clattered on the floor. Her phone finally went dark, battery dead. The world outside the room ceased to exist. There was only skin, and sweat, and gasped profanities, and the relentless, driving need to connect, to forget, to claim and be claimed.
Eventually, spent, they lay entwined in the wreckage of the sheets. Dawn was a grey smear at the window. Tanya traced the scratches on his chest, her breathing slow and even. She kissed his shoulder, a tender, unthinking gesture. “Divakar,” she sighed, his name a soft prayer on her bruised lips.
He held her, the gym-sculpted perfection of her body fitting against his with a shocking rightness. The cold stone of guilt was still there, but it was buried under layers of warm skin and the scent of her hair. He thought of Soumya, waking up alone in her apartment, probably sending a good morning text he wouldn’t see for hours.
Tanya’s breathing deepened into sleep. He stared at the water stain on the ceiling, a familiar shape he’d traced a hundred times. The web held, for now. But with each sincere, tender sigh in the dark, he felt the strands tighten, and the delicate, impossible structure of his life tremble.