27-01-2026, 02:39 PM
(This post was last modified: 27-01-2026, 02:41 PM by heygiwriter. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
Chapter 3: Distance & Dreams
The town thirty kilometers away felt like another country. No cows wandering the streets, no thinnai gossip at dusk, only the constant hum of buses, the smell of diesel from lorries, and roadside tea stalls where men argued politics over strong filter coffee. Vikram rented a tiny room above a provision shop—single cot pushed against a cracked wall, shared bathroom at the corridor’s end that always smelled of damp stone.
Rent took half his savings from odd jobs back home, but he never complained. Every rupee saved was a step further from Aunt Lakshmi’s sharp tongue and the courtyard where his father had died.
College was everything college had promised and more. Lectures in English, labs with real equipment, classmates from bigger places who spoke with confidence he was still learning. He worked mornings in the canteen—washing steel plates, serving idli-sambar—then attended classes, then evenings at a tuition center grading papers for extra cash.
Sleep came in snatches, four or five hours at most, but his marks stayed high.
Professors noticed. “You have fire in you, Vikram,” the mechanical engineering head said after a project presentation. “Don’t let it die.”
The only tether to the village was Uncle’s landline. Once a week, usually Sunday evenings when Aunt was at the temple, he called. Uncle always answered first—gruff but warm. “How are studies, kanna? Eating properly?”
Then, after a few minutes, Malar would take the phone.
Her voice through the crackling line was the best part of the week.
“Mama, you sound tired. Did you eat biryani today?”
She teased. “Don’t forget to drink milk.” Sometimes she sent small envelopes through bus drivers—fifty rupees here, hundred there, folded inside a letter. “For food,” she wrote in neat Tamil script. “Don’t tell Amma.”
He read those letters over and over, tracing her handwriting like it could pull him back home sooner.
The years blurred. First year, second, third. He grew taller, shoulders broader from lifting crates, voice deeper. Malar finished college, then joined a local arts college in the village. Their calls grew longer. She talked about her classes, her friends, how Aunt still complained about everything.
“Appa asks about you every day,” she said once. “He says when you come back with a job, everything will be fine.”
Vikram felt motivated because of her...
The childhood promise still lived in every conversation.
Final year exams came. He studied until his eyes burned, slept with textbooks open on his chest. Results day: first class, distinction. The college auditorium filled with cheers and camera flashes. Vikram stood on stage, degree certificate in hand, the weight of it real for the first time. Not a dream anymore. A fact.
That evening, he called home. Uncle answered, voice thick with pride. “You did it, kanna. I knew you would.”
Then Malar came on the line.
“Maama…” Her voice was soft, almost shy. “Congratulations. You gave back everyone.. I know, You’re different from the rest of us.”
A small laugh. “Come home soon. We’re waiting.”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The old crush hadn’t faded—it had grown roots. He allowed himself to imagine it fully for the first time: returning with a job, asking Uncle formally, Malar in a new saree, the temple priest tying the thaali. He smiled into the phone like she could see it.
A week later, he boarded the bus back to the village. Friends met him at the stop—old collegemates, now working in fields or small shops. They clapped his back, called him “engineer saar,” dragged him to the old village theatre for celebration. “One film,” they insisted. “You deserve it.”
The theatre was the same as always: tin roof, wooden benches sticky from years of spilled soda, single fan creaking overhead, smell of popcorn and beedi smoke.
The new film started—loud songs, bright colors. Midway through, nature called, he needs to urinate...
Vikram slipped out, weaving through the dim corridor toward the toilets.
After urinating,, when he returned to wash his hand.. that is when he noticed...
A muffled gasp stopped him cold.
A woman’s voice—soft, broken into a moan. Then a low grunt, rhythmic, wet. The sounds came from the storage room at the corridor’s end, door slightly ajar.
Back in the village, people whispered about such things—illegal affairs in dark corners, husbands betrayed, wives sneaking away.
Vikram had heard the stories all his life, felt the curious heat they stirred in him at nineteen, twenty, when urges came unbidden at night and he had to hide under the blanket to touch himself. Now, twenty-two and hardened by years of hard work, that same urge rose sharp and sudden, hotter than he expected.
He glanced around—no one in the corridor. His breath quickened. He stepped closer.
Hand trembling, he loosened his pants, pushed them down just enough, wrapped his fingers around his already stiff cock.
He leaned forward, eye pressed to the narrow gap in the door, stroking slowly at first, then faster as the sounds pulled him in.
Through the dim light he saw bodies—her skirt hiked high, legs spread wide, hips rocking forward to meet each thrust.
The man gripped her hips hard, pulling her onto him with bruising force.
Skin slapped skin, wet and urgent. Her back scbangd the grimy wall.
Sweat glistened on her thighs. Her moans grew louder, breathy, needy—each one sending a jolt straight to his groin.
Five minutes passed. His hand moved heavy now, slick with pre-cum, pace frantic.
He was getting high quick, head spinning, the forbidden rhythm of their bodies pushing him closer and closer to the edge.
He was about to cum, muscles tensing, breath ragged—
Then the man shifted, turning slightly. to reveal himself but Vikram in ectasy closed his eyes.. he didn't realize his weight is now pressing door ajar...
To his shock the door creaked open alerting all.
Vikram shocked.
The town thirty kilometers away felt like another country. No cows wandering the streets, no thinnai gossip at dusk, only the constant hum of buses, the smell of diesel from lorries, and roadside tea stalls where men argued politics over strong filter coffee. Vikram rented a tiny room above a provision shop—single cot pushed against a cracked wall, shared bathroom at the corridor’s end that always smelled of damp stone.
Rent took half his savings from odd jobs back home, but he never complained. Every rupee saved was a step further from Aunt Lakshmi’s sharp tongue and the courtyard where his father had died.
College was everything college had promised and more. Lectures in English, labs with real equipment, classmates from bigger places who spoke with confidence he was still learning. He worked mornings in the canteen—washing steel plates, serving idli-sambar—then attended classes, then evenings at a tuition center grading papers for extra cash.
Sleep came in snatches, four or five hours at most, but his marks stayed high.
Professors noticed. “You have fire in you, Vikram,” the mechanical engineering head said after a project presentation. “Don’t let it die.”
The only tether to the village was Uncle’s landline. Once a week, usually Sunday evenings when Aunt was at the temple, he called. Uncle always answered first—gruff but warm. “How are studies, kanna? Eating properly?”
Then, after a few minutes, Malar would take the phone.
Her voice through the crackling line was the best part of the week.
“Mama, you sound tired. Did you eat biryani today?”
She teased. “Don’t forget to drink milk.” Sometimes she sent small envelopes through bus drivers—fifty rupees here, hundred there, folded inside a letter. “For food,” she wrote in neat Tamil script. “Don’t tell Amma.”
He read those letters over and over, tracing her handwriting like it could pull him back home sooner.
The years blurred. First year, second, third. He grew taller, shoulders broader from lifting crates, voice deeper. Malar finished college, then joined a local arts college in the village. Their calls grew longer. She talked about her classes, her friends, how Aunt still complained about everything.
“Appa asks about you every day,” she said once. “He says when you come back with a job, everything will be fine.”
Vikram felt motivated because of her...
The childhood promise still lived in every conversation.
Final year exams came. He studied until his eyes burned, slept with textbooks open on his chest. Results day: first class, distinction. The college auditorium filled with cheers and camera flashes. Vikram stood on stage, degree certificate in hand, the weight of it real for the first time. Not a dream anymore. A fact.
That evening, he called home. Uncle answered, voice thick with pride. “You did it, kanna. I knew you would.”
Then Malar came on the line.
“Maama…” Her voice was soft, almost shy. “Congratulations. You gave back everyone.. I know, You’re different from the rest of us.”
A small laugh. “Come home soon. We’re waiting.”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The old crush hadn’t faded—it had grown roots. He allowed himself to imagine it fully for the first time: returning with a job, asking Uncle formally, Malar in a new saree, the temple priest tying the thaali. He smiled into the phone like she could see it.
A week later, he boarded the bus back to the village. Friends met him at the stop—old collegemates, now working in fields or small shops. They clapped his back, called him “engineer saar,” dragged him to the old village theatre for celebration. “One film,” they insisted. “You deserve it.”
The theatre was the same as always: tin roof, wooden benches sticky from years of spilled soda, single fan creaking overhead, smell of popcorn and beedi smoke.
The new film started—loud songs, bright colors. Midway through, nature called, he needs to urinate...
Vikram slipped out, weaving through the dim corridor toward the toilets.
After urinating,, when he returned to wash his hand.. that is when he noticed...
A muffled gasp stopped him cold.
A woman’s voice—soft, broken into a moan. Then a low grunt, rhythmic, wet. The sounds came from the storage room at the corridor’s end, door slightly ajar.
Back in the village, people whispered about such things—illegal affairs in dark corners, husbands betrayed, wives sneaking away.
Vikram had heard the stories all his life, felt the curious heat they stirred in him at nineteen, twenty, when urges came unbidden at night and he had to hide under the blanket to touch himself. Now, twenty-two and hardened by years of hard work, that same urge rose sharp and sudden, hotter than he expected.
He glanced around—no one in the corridor. His breath quickened. He stepped closer.
Hand trembling, he loosened his pants, pushed them down just enough, wrapped his fingers around his already stiff cock.
He leaned forward, eye pressed to the narrow gap in the door, stroking slowly at first, then faster as the sounds pulled him in.
Through the dim light he saw bodies—her skirt hiked high, legs spread wide, hips rocking forward to meet each thrust.
The man gripped her hips hard, pulling her onto him with bruising force.
Skin slapped skin, wet and urgent. Her back scbangd the grimy wall.
Sweat glistened on her thighs. Her moans grew louder, breathy, needy—each one sending a jolt straight to his groin.
Five minutes passed. His hand moved heavy now, slick with pre-cum, pace frantic.
He was getting high quick, head spinning, the forbidden rhythm of their bodies pushing him closer and closer to the edge.
He was about to cum, muscles tensing, breath ragged—
Then the man shifted, turning slightly. to reveal himself but Vikram in ectasy closed his eyes.. he didn't realize his weight is now pressing door ajar...
To his shock the door creaked open alerting all.
Vikram shocked.
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