Chapter 4: Soumya's Surprise Party
The metallic scent of the local train, the sweat and press of strangers, still clung to Divakar’s clothes as he stood outside Soumya’s apartment door. In his mind, a phantom sensation lingered: the soft cotton of his old college t-shirt, now folded in Tanya’s bag. He shook his head, a physical attempt to clear it. He needed to be here, now. He was Divakar who loved Soumya. That was also true.
He knocked. The door opened almost immediately, and the world shifted.
Soumya stood framed in the warm, dim light. There was no party noise, no crowd of friends. Just the low, throbbing pulse of a bluesy trumpet from her speakers. And her. She wore a sheer black nightie, the lace tracing the pronounced curves of her hips, the dark nipples of her full breasts visible beneath the fabric. Her smile was a slow, deliberate thing.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.
“I… thought there was a gathering,” he managed, stepping inside. The door clicked shut, sealing them in. The air was warm, thick with vanilla, jasmine, and something undeniably her.
“I lied.” She moved into him, her hands sliding up his chest. “Priya cancelled. Everyone cancelled. And the thought of you, here, with all those people… I couldn’t stand it. I wanted you to myself.” Her lips found his neck, just below his ear. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Since you texted.”
His body responded instantly, betraying the fatigue in his bones. He cupped her face, kissed her. It was different from Tanya’s kisses—not hungry or grateful, but deeply knowing, a proprietary claim. Her tongue slid against his, tasting of whiskey and mint. Her hands dropped, fumbling with the button of his jeans, then the zipper. She pushed the fabric down over his hips and her cool fingers wrapped around him.
“Fuck,” he breathed into her mouth as she stroked his hard, thick length. “Soumya…”
“I know,” she murmured, her breath hot on his lips. She pumped him slowly, her thumb swiping over the head, already wet. “I can feel how much you want me.” She pushed his jeans down further, until they pooled at his ankles. “Get these off.”
He kicked them aside, along with his shirt. She stepped back, her eyes drinking him in, then turned and walked slowly toward the living room, the muscles in her powerful thighs and the perfect swell of her ass shifting under the sheer fabric. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.
He followed, his pulse hammering in his throat. She stopped by the wide, plush rug in front of the darkened television. A single candle flickered on the side table, next to her whiskey glass. She turned to face him, hooked her thumbs in the delicate straps of her nightie, and let it slide down her body. It was a revelation. Her body was toned and strong, a testament to miles run and weights lifted, yet utterly soft in all the right places. Her breasts were high and full, her stomach flat, a landing strip of dark curls between her legs, perfectly shaved.
“Come here,” she said, lying back on the rug, spreading her legs. “I need your mouth on me. Now.”
He knelt between her thighs, the urgency obliterating all other thought. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, hit him. He lowered his head and licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit. She gasped, her back arching off the floor. He buried his face in her, his tongue delving deep into her wet, hot centre before circling her swollen clit with firm, relentless pressure. He fucked her with his tongue, then sucked, his hands gripping her strong thighs, holding her open.
“Yes, right there, god, don’t stop,” she chanted, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding but holding on. Her hips rolled against his face, grinding her cunt onto his mouth. He could feel her tightening, her breath coming in sharp whines. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, and her whole body seized.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, fuck!” she screamed, the sound raw and echoing in the apartment. Her pussy clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a flood of wet heat against his lips and chin. He lapped at her gently as she shuddered, until her grip on his hair softened.
Before the last tremor had faded, she was pushing at his shoulders. “I need you inside me,” she panted, her eyes wild in the candlelight. “Turn over.”
He understood. She got onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to him, the gorgeous globes of her ass high in the air, her glistening, used pussy exposed. He positioned himself behind her, the broad head of his cock nudging against her soaked opening. He gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into the firm muscle.
“Do it,” she growled, looking back over her shoulder. “Fuck me hard, Divakar. I want to feel it tomorrow.”
He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion. She was so tight, still fluttering from her orgasm, and so fucking wet. He sheathed himself in one long, deep stroke until his balls were pressed against her.
They both groaned, a duet of pure, obscene pleasure.
He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in. The sound was filthy: the slap of flesh on flesh, the wet, sucking noise of her cunt taking him. Each thrust rocked her forward. Her moans were constant, low, and guttural.
“You feel so big,” she choked out. “You’re splitting me open. Yes! Just like that!”
He fucked her with a punishing, steady rhythm, his own breath ragged. He watched himself disappear into her, his cock glistening with her juices. The visual was almost too much. He reached around, finding her clit, rubbing rough, quick circles.
“Oh god, I’m gonna come again,” she sobbed, her arms buckling so her chest was to the rug, her ass still high. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
Her inner muscles clamped down on him like a vise, a violent, milking pull that dragged his own orgasm up from the base of his spine. He hammered into her through her climax, his rhythm shattering.
“I’m there,” he grunted, the words torn from him. “Soumya, fuck, I’m—”
“Come inside me,” she demanded, her voice shattered. “Fill me up.”
With a final, deep plunge, he did. He held himself deep as the pulses racked him, jet after hot jet spilling into her. He collapsed forward over her back, spent, his forehead against her shoulder blade. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged harmony.
After a long moment, she shifted. He slipped out of her, a mix of their fluids trickling down her inner thigh. She rolled onto her side, facing him, her eyes soft and sated. She traced a finger over his lips, then brought it to her own mouth, tasting herself on him.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he breathed, his body humming, his mind beginning its treacherous return.
She curled into him, her head on his arm. “I’m glad everyone cancelled.”
“Me too.” He kissed her hair, inhaling her scent, trying to make it the only thing in his universe. The ghost of jasmine and sweat from another woman, from just hours ago, felt like a blasphemy in this room.
“You’re quiet,” she murmured after a while.
“Just happy,” he said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. The guilt was a cold, separate layer beneath the physical satisfaction, a sheet of ice under a warm bed. “It was a long week. This is the best possible end to it.”
She smiled, snuggling closer. “Stay the night. Don’t go back to that depressing PG. Stay here. This is your home.”
The words, so tender, so believing, were like shards of glass in his gut. Your home. He thought of Tanya, a ghost in his t-shirt, saying I’ll see you.
“I’d love to,” he said, his voice rough.
And he did. He stayed. He held her until her breathing evened out into sleep. In the dark, the candle now guttered out, he stared at the ceiling. The memory of Soumya’s climax, so intense, so trusting, played against the fading echo of Tanya’s laughter in the park. He was a man divided, each piece genuinely, desperately in love, and the sheer mathematics of his deceit began to feel like a weight that would eventually, inevitably, crush them all. The phone in his discarded jeans, silent now, seemed to pulse on the floor like a dying star.