Yesterday, 11:07 AM
Chapter 3: A History of Hunger
The Early Awakening
Rohan's sexual awakening came early and with overwhelming intensity. At fifteen, while his classmates whispered about stolen kisses, he was already experiencing the compulsive drive that would shape his life. It began with his cousin Tania, two years older, who visited during summer vacation.
They were alone in his house, the adults at work. The monsoon heat pressed against the windows as she showed him a dance move in the living room, her body swaying in a way that made his uniform trousers suddenly tight.
"Your body..." he had stammered, fifteen and overwhelmed.
"What about it?" she teased, knowing exactly her effect.
He didn't remember who moved first, only the shocking heat of her mouth on his, the feel of her breast in his trembling hand. They fumbled on the sofa, clothes pushed aside rather than removed. When he entered her, the sensation was so profound he thought he might lose consciousness. She gasped, her nails digging into his back.
"Slow," she breathed, but he couldn't. The hunger was a physical thing, driving him with piston-like rhythm until she shuddered beneath him and he spilled into her with a cry that felt torn from his soul.
Afterward, she looked at him with something like fear. "You're... intense."
It was the first time he heard that word applied to his sexuality, but not the last.
University Years
At Dhaka University, Rohan's reputation grew. His combination of physical presence, confidence, and undeniable skill in bed made him a legend in certain circles. There was Laila, the economics major who cried after their first time together.
"I've never..." she whispered, trembling in his narrow dorm bed. "It's never been like that."
He learned then the power of his gift—not just the size that women commented on with awe or apprehension, but the stamina that allowed him to continue long after other men finished. He could bring a woman to climax repeatedly, learning her body with focused attention that felt like worship even when it was really about his own need.
Then came the dangerous liaison with Professor Rahman's wife, Nusrat. She was thirty-eight to his twenty-two, elegant and bored. At a department party, their eyes met across a room, and the understanding was immediate.
Their first encounter was in her Gulshan home while her husband attended a conference. She led him to the bedroom with a married woman's practiced discretion.
"I've heard stories," she said as she unbuttoned his shirt.
"Don't believe everything you hear."
But when she saw him fully aroused, her composure faltered. "My God."
What followed was an education in the sexuality of older women—less inhibition, more directness. She demanded specific things with a clarity that thrilled him.
"Harder," she commanded, her legs locked around his waist. "Don't be gentle."
He complied, driving into her with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall. She screamed, not in pain but in triumphant release, her body convulsing beneath him.
Afterward, smoking by the window, she said, "You'll break hearts, Rohan. Or worse."
The Married Man
Even after marrying Anika—a good match, a beautiful woman from a respectable family—the hunger persisted. He took lovers discreetly: colleagues, friends' wives, even his neighbor in Banani whose husband worked abroad.
There was Shehla, his assistant at work, who became his mistress for eighteen months. She was married to a man in Chittagong, visiting Dhaka monthly. Their encounters were frantic, stolen hours in hotel rooms where she would beg him for things she'd never asked of her husband.
"Please," she would whimper as he took her from behind, her face pressed into the mattress. "Don't stop. Never stop."
He never did, not until she was hoarse from screaming and he had emptied himself into her for the second or third time.
Anika knew, of course. Dhaka was too small a city for such secrets. She confronted him once, tears streaming down her face.
"Why am I not enough?"
He had no answer that wouldn't wound her further. The truth—that no one woman could ever be enough—was a cruelty he couldn't voice.
The Bhabi
Most taboo of all was his relationship with his cousin's wife, Farah—his bhabi. It began at a family wedding, both of them drunk on smuggled whiskey in a quiet corner of the garden.
"You look at me differently," she said, her words slurred but her meaning clear.
"Do I?"
She placed her hand on his thigh, high enough to leave no doubt. "I know what you are. I've heard."
He took her to an empty guest room, their movements hurried and desperate. When he entered her, she bit his shoulder to muffle her cry.
"My husband..." she gasped between thrusts. "He's nothing like..."
He silenced her with his mouth, driving into her with a ferocity that felt like anger. Afterward, as they straightened their wedding clothes, she touched his face with something like pity.
"This hunger in you... it will consume everything."
He kissed her once more, hard. "Then let it."
Now, years later, lying in his empty bed in Dhanmondi, Rohan remembered these women not with nostalgia but as data points in his ongoing study of his own nature. Each had been a temporary satisfaction, a meal that left him hungry again within days.
Riya, he sensed, might be different. Not because she could satisfy the hunger permanently—he had abandoned that hope—but because her own need might match his.
The Early Awakening
Rohan's sexual awakening came early and with overwhelming intensity. At fifteen, while his classmates whispered about stolen kisses, he was already experiencing the compulsive drive that would shape his life. It began with his cousin Tania, two years older, who visited during summer vacation.
They were alone in his house, the adults at work. The monsoon heat pressed against the windows as she showed him a dance move in the living room, her body swaying in a way that made his uniform trousers suddenly tight.
"Your body..." he had stammered, fifteen and overwhelmed.
"What about it?" she teased, knowing exactly her effect.
He didn't remember who moved first, only the shocking heat of her mouth on his, the feel of her breast in his trembling hand. They fumbled on the sofa, clothes pushed aside rather than removed. When he entered her, the sensation was so profound he thought he might lose consciousness. She gasped, her nails digging into his back.
"Slow," she breathed, but he couldn't. The hunger was a physical thing, driving him with piston-like rhythm until she shuddered beneath him and he spilled into her with a cry that felt torn from his soul.
Afterward, she looked at him with something like fear. "You're... intense."
It was the first time he heard that word applied to his sexuality, but not the last.
University Years
At Dhaka University, Rohan's reputation grew. His combination of physical presence, confidence, and undeniable skill in bed made him a legend in certain circles. There was Laila, the economics major who cried after their first time together.
"I've never..." she whispered, trembling in his narrow dorm bed. "It's never been like that."
He learned then the power of his gift—not just the size that women commented on with awe or apprehension, but the stamina that allowed him to continue long after other men finished. He could bring a woman to climax repeatedly, learning her body with focused attention that felt like worship even when it was really about his own need.
Then came the dangerous liaison with Professor Rahman's wife, Nusrat. She was thirty-eight to his twenty-two, elegant and bored. At a department party, their eyes met across a room, and the understanding was immediate.
Their first encounter was in her Gulshan home while her husband attended a conference. She led him to the bedroom with a married woman's practiced discretion.
"I've heard stories," she said as she unbuttoned his shirt.
"Don't believe everything you hear."
But when she saw him fully aroused, her composure faltered. "My God."
What followed was an education in the sexuality of older women—less inhibition, more directness. She demanded specific things with a clarity that thrilled him.
"Harder," she commanded, her legs locked around his waist. "Don't be gentle."
He complied, driving into her with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall. She screamed, not in pain but in triumphant release, her body convulsing beneath him.
Afterward, smoking by the window, she said, "You'll break hearts, Rohan. Or worse."
The Married Man
Even after marrying Anika—a good match, a beautiful woman from a respectable family—the hunger persisted. He took lovers discreetly: colleagues, friends' wives, even his neighbor in Banani whose husband worked abroad.
There was Shehla, his assistant at work, who became his mistress for eighteen months. She was married to a man in Chittagong, visiting Dhaka monthly. Their encounters were frantic, stolen hours in hotel rooms where she would beg him for things she'd never asked of her husband.
"Please," she would whimper as he took her from behind, her face pressed into the mattress. "Don't stop. Never stop."
He never did, not until she was hoarse from screaming and he had emptied himself into her for the second or third time.
Anika knew, of course. Dhaka was too small a city for such secrets. She confronted him once, tears streaming down her face.
"Why am I not enough?"
He had no answer that wouldn't wound her further. The truth—that no one woman could ever be enough—was a cruelty he couldn't voice.
The Bhabi
Most taboo of all was his relationship with his cousin's wife, Farah—his bhabi. It began at a family wedding, both of them drunk on smuggled whiskey in a quiet corner of the garden.
"You look at me differently," she said, her words slurred but her meaning clear.
"Do I?"
She placed her hand on his thigh, high enough to leave no doubt. "I know what you are. I've heard."
He took her to an empty guest room, their movements hurried and desperate. When he entered her, she bit his shoulder to muffle her cry.
"My husband..." she gasped between thrusts. "He's nothing like..."
He silenced her with his mouth, driving into her with a ferocity that felt like anger. Afterward, as they straightened their wedding clothes, she touched his face with something like pity.
"This hunger in you... it will consume everything."
He kissed her once more, hard. "Then let it."
Now, years later, lying in his empty bed in Dhanmondi, Rohan remembered these women not with nostalgia but as data points in his ongoing study of his own nature. Each had been a temporary satisfaction, a meal that left him hungry again within days.
Riya, he sensed, might be different. Not because she could satisfy the hunger permanently—he had abandoned that hope—but because her own need might match his.
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