[Muhammad Hasan]

Chapter-15

I told her yes without hesitation.
Sarah had been quieter than usual for days. The missing sat on her like a second skin. She moved through the house with the distracted air of someone whose mind kept leaving the room. When she finally said she felt bored and restless and wanted a few days at her mother’s house in the next town, it sounded almost reasonable. Distance. Familiar walls. Her mother’s cooking. Something ordinary to interrupt the loop of wanting.
“Go,” I said. “Spend time with her. Clear your head.”
She packed light. One small suitcase, the soft sweater she always wore when she needed comfort, the charger for her phone. At the door she kissed me longer than usual and promised she would call every evening.
“Every night,” she said. “I’ll tell you about the boring things. Mom’s garden. The neighbor’s cat. Whatever. Just so you know I’m okay.”
I believed her. Or I wanted to.
She left the next morning. The house settled into a different kind of quiet the moment the car disappeared around the corner. I went to work. I came home to silence. At 6:40 p.m. my phone rang.
Her voice was already wrong.
“Hey,” she said, and the single syllable was breathy, stretched, as if she had been holding it in. In the background I heard the soft, rhythmic creak of something—mattress springs or a headboard taking steady weight.
“You sound out of breath.”
A short, shaky laugh. “I was… helping Mom move some boxes in the guest room. Heavy ones. Old photo albums and winter clothes. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
The creaking continued under her words, slow and deliberate. Her breathing stayed high, little catches between sentences.
“You sure you’re okay? You sound like you’re working hard.”
“I am. These boxes are ridiculous. Mom saved everything. I’m sweating.” Another soft moan slipped out before she could swallow it. She covered it with a cough. “Sorry. Pulled something in my back. Give me a second.”
I listened to the silence that was not silence. The creaking sped up for several seconds, then slowed again. When she came back on the line her voice was thinner.
“I’m here. Just… needed to set the last one down. How was your day?”
We talked for twelve minutes. Every answer was careful. Every breath was not. When she said she had to go help with dinner the line went quiet too quickly, as if someone else had ended the call.
I sat with the phone in my hand and told myself boxes were heavy. Backs got pulled. Breathing could sound like that.
I almost believed it.
The second call came at 10:17 p.m.
This time there was no pretense of composure.
The moment the line connected I heard it—the deep, rhythmic thumping of flesh on flesh, hard and continuous, the unmistakable sound of someone being fucked from behind with real force. Sarah’s voice arrived in fragments, broken by the impact.
“H-hey… baby…”
“Sarah. What’s going on?”
A long, shaky moan tore out of her before she could answer. The thumping never stopped. It was the exact cadence I remembered from the guest-room night—Jake’s hips driving into her, the wet slap of skin, the way her big, soft ass would ripple and bounce under each thrust. I used to slap those cheeks and watch the pink bloom. Jake had treated them like something to be used until they were red and marked and shaking.
“I’m… I’m fine,” she managed between impacts. “Just… stretching. Mom’s guest bed is so soft I was doing some… yoga. Hip openers. You know how tight I get.”
Another hard thrust. Another broken sound she tried to turn into a laugh.
“That doesn’t sound like yoga.”
“It is. I promise. I’m on all fours… ah… trying to loosen my lower back. The drive made everything stiff.” The words came out in short bursts timed to the rhythm behind her. “Talk to me. Tell me about your evening. I want to hear your voice.”
I asked the questions anyway.
“Is someone there with you?”
“No. Just me. Mom’s already asleep downstairs. I’m being quiet. Sort of.”
“Why does it sound like the bed is hitting the wall?”
“Because… because I’m bouncing a little. To get the stretch deeper. It helps.” A longer moan slipped free. “God… it helps so much.”
“Sarah. Tell me the truth.”
“I am. I’m stretching. I’m alone. I’m thinking about you. That’s why I sound like this.” The thumping grew harder, faster. Her voice climbed. “I miss you. I miss… everything. I’m just trying to work it out of my body so I can sleep.”
I listened for another four minutes while she answered every suspicion with the same clever, trembling logic. Boxes. Yoga. Tight hips. Missing me. The sounds never matched the story. They matched the memory of her on her knees, back arched, that full ass taking everything Jake gave it until the cheeks were scarlet and her thighs shook.
When she finally said she needed to finish her “stretch” and call me in the morning, the line went dead while the thumping was still going.
I sat in the dark living room and stared at the phone until the screen timed out.
I knew what was happening.
I also knew she would have another careful answer ready when the sun came up.
The missing had not gone to her mother’s house to rest.
It had gone there to be fed in secret, hard and deep, while I listened from a hundred miles away and tried to decide how many clever lies I was still willing to accept.