She broke the kiss, her chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes still locked with mine. Her voice was shaky as she said, “Go and get it.”
My brow furrowed. “Get what?” My mind was a whirl of passion and confusion.
She giggled, that playful sound that sends shivers down my spine. “I like… chocolate coffee more.”
My eyes widened, understanding dawning in a rush. She wanted, not just me, but the experience, the heightened moment. “Get ready,” I said, my voice hoarse, and I knew she wasn’t talking about chocolate coffee.
Leaving her in the room, I grabbed my bike keys and sped to the nearest supermarket. I picked out a box of Moods chocolate condoms and hurried back, my heart pounding in my chest. When Zarah opened the door, I almost staggered back. She’d changed into tiny shorts and a sleeveless top, her skin glowing, her eyes alight with a predatory spark.
She didn’t wait for me to speak. She simply launched herself at me, her lips crashing against mine in a passionate kiss that sent my senses reeling. Her hands were everywhere, roaming my body, exploring every inch of my skin. She kissed my neck, my shoulders, inhaling deeply in the crook of my arm, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. There was no coyness, no hesitation, just raw, unadulterated desire.
Her kisses turned into nibbles, her tongue laving my fingertips, teasingly running along my leg. She stripped my top off, her hands eager, her breath warm against my bare skin. Then, with a swift movement, she removed her own shirt, revealing her lacy bra. I kicked off my trousers and was left in my boxer briefs. She then did the same thing, removing her shorts leaving her only in her undergarments. My own body was on fire, and I could feel my erection throbbing.
She kissed my nipples, teasing them with her teeth, before pulling away to take my penis in her hand. I moaned, my body shaking with anticipation. I couldn’t wait any longer. I reached out to unhook her bra, her breasts spilling into my awaiting hands. I kissed her nipples, drawing them into my mouth, sucking gently. Her back arched, a soft moan escaping her lips. Then my fingers found her panties and slipped beneath the fabric, exploring her dampness, the sweet honey of her desire.
She pulled back, her eyes dark with passion. “I want the chocolate coffee,” she purred, her voice thick.
I wasted no time. I tore open the Moods condom, the chocolate scent filling the air. Soon, I was inside her, the tight warmth sending shivers down my spine. Our bodies melded together, our movements driven by instinct. The urgency of our desires reached a crescendo as we writhed together, the intimacy filling the room, consuming us entirely.
She moaned, a sharp, almost pained sound as I thrust deeper, the lack of lubrication intensifying the friction. I poured myself into her, my release coming in a torrent. She reached a climax just moments after, her body shuddering with pleasure as she dug her nails into my back.
Later, after we cleaned ourselves in the shower, I felt a deep sense of contentment. We dressed, the silence filled with a comfortable ease only experienced with someone with whom you have shared a profound experience. We got back on the bike, she held her hands inside my pants pocket, occasionally touching my penis with her fingertips, making me shiver remembering the intense intimacy we just shared. The ride back to Kochi was filled with a palpable sense of anticipation, a promise of more moments like these to come.
We reached home at exactly 7 PM as planned. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Zarah: “How was it?”
A smile blossomed across my face as I typed back. “Unexplainable… I’m already started planning the next trip.”
Her reply came instantly, a funny smiley followed by a running smiley. I knew then that this was just the beginning of our story, a story filled with laughter, passion, and endless possibilities. And I couldn’t wait to see where this journey would take us.
The scent of pine still clung to my clothes, a phantom reminder of Ooty’s crisp air and Zarah’s warm body pressed against mine. The memory of her fingers, light as a feather yet electrifying, tracing the contours of my skin, still sent shivers down my spine. The ride back on the bike, her hand nestled in my pocket, felt like a lifetime ago, a blissful dream now fading into the harsh reality of Bangalore.
Our relationship, blossoming after that trip, had been a whirlwind of stolen kisses in movie theaters, quiet weekends exploring nearby towns, and an intimacy that felt both fragile and invincible. We were two halves of a whole, perfectly imperfect and undeniably in love. Then came the job offer in Bangalore, a necessary step forward in my career, but a geographical chasm that widened the distance between us.
The calls continued, bridging the miles with shared laughter and whispered promises. But the idyllic façade shattered one day with a frantic call from Zarah. Her voice, usually bright and effervescent, was choked with fear and pain. Her father, she whispered, had discovered our relationship. The ensuing fallout was brutal, a violent storm that left her battered and bruised, effectively under house arrest.
Her next call was a lifeline, a last desperate gasp before the storm swallowed her whole. “Vishal,” she pleaded, her voice trembling, “Please… don’t come. They’ll kill you.”
My heart shattered into a million pieces. “What will you do?” I choked out, tears blurring my vision. The words felt hollow, inadequate against the weight of her despair.
“Don’t cry, Vishal,” she managed, forcing a strength she clearly didn’t possess. “I’ll… I’ll take care of things. Don’t worry. Love you. Live happily.”
The line went dead. Repeated calls met with silence. Then came the WhatsApp message, a cruel, finality in the college group chat: a picture of Zarah, the caption stark and chilling: “Living in Memories.”