Aysha and Taimur: The Revelation

The monsoon arrived early that year, turning Islamabad’s streets into silver rivers that reflected the bruised velvet of the Margalla Hills, rain lashing the city like divine judgment. Inside the F-7/2 house, the air-conditioning hummed like a guilty secret, struggling against the humidity that seeped through cracks—the study window with its loose pane, the terrace door that never quite sealed, the spaces between Aysha’s ribs when she thought of the risks they courted. It was August, the air thick enough to chew, when Taimur came home from the office soaked through, shirt plastered to his chest like a second skin, outlining every muscle, hair dripping onto the marble hallway. Aysha met him with a towel, the way she had when he was ten and caught in a downpour after cricket practice in the nearby park. Only now her hands lingered, tracing the line of his collarbone through the wet fabric, the hard plane of his stomach, fingers dipping lower to brush the waistband of his trousers. The towel dropped forgotten. His mouth found hers against the wall, urgent, teeth clashing in a kiss that tasted of rain and desperation. The cook had left for the day; the driver was at the mosque for Maghrib. The house was theirs, empty and echoing.

They didn’t make it upstairs. He lifted her onto the console table in the foyer, the wood cool against her thighs as he shoved her kurta up to her waist, yanked the shalwar down in one rough motion. No underwear—she had stopped wearing it weeks ago, a silent dare that made her wet at the thought of him discovering it anytime. He spread her thighs wide, saw the slick shine of her arousal glistening on her folds, the pink flush of her clit peeking out, and groaned deep in his throat. “Fuck, Ammi,” the word slipped out raw, half curse, half prayer, taboo twisting it into something erotic. She answered by pulling him closer, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, leaving red trails. He freed himself quickly, cock springing out thick and hard, veins pulsing, and entered her in one thrust, bare, the way they had stopped pretending they wouldn’t after Dubai. The table rocked dangerously; a porcelain vase from Lahore crashed to the floor, shattering like their restraint. She didn’t care, legs locking around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper, her pussy clenching around him like a fist.

The sound of their bodies was obscene—wet slaps echoing in the high-ceilinged hallway, her broken moans mixing with his grunts, the rain hammering the roof like applause. He bit her neck, leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning, then her breast through the cotton kurta, teeth grazing the nipple until it hardened painfully. She came first, clenching around him in waves, a low cry muffled against his shoulder as her body shuddered, juices coating his balls. He followed seconds later, hips jerking erratically, spilling inside her with a guttural sound that was half sob, pulsing hot and deep, filling her womb with his seed. Afterward, they stayed joined, breathing hard, his forehead against hers, cum leaking down her thighs onto the table. Rain hammered relentlessly. “We should—” she started, voice shaky, trying to pull away. “Don’t,” he said, thrusting lazily once more, making her gasp. “Not yet.”

They had been reckless for months since returning from Dubai. Condoms abandoned after the first trip, the pill too obvious to buy in Islamabad without whispers reaching family ears. Pull-out had become their fragile religion, a game of chance they played with increasing abandon, but lately Taimur’s resolve cracked every time she whispered “inside” against his ear during climax, her voice trembling with something darker than lust—need, possession, the void Farooq left. He told himself it was biology, the animal need to claim her completely, to mark her from the inside. She told herself it was grief, the hollow space only Taimur’s body—and now his cum—could fill, warm and sticky, a temporary balm. They fucked everywhere the house allowed: the kitchen at dawn, her back against the fridge magnets clattering to the floor, his hand over her mouth so the maid in the adjacent quarter wouldn’t hear her screams; the garage, her palms flat on the warm hood of the SUV, engine still ticking from the drive, his thrusts rocking them until the alarm chirped in protest; the walk-in closet, surrounded by Farooq’s suits, her legs wrapped around him as he pinned her against the shelves, cum dripping down her legs onto Italian leather shoes.

The first missed period came in September, subtle at first—Aysha noticing in the shower, fingers pressed to her lower belly, feeling the faint bloat that wasn’t from the rich biryanis they shared late at night. She stood under the scalding water until it ran cold, watching the drain swallow suds and her fear, the steam thick with the scent of her rose soap. Denial lasted a week; then she bought the test at a pharmacy in Jinnah Super, heart hammering as the cashier—a girl barely older than Taimur, with a hijab pinned neatly—rang it up without meeting her eyes, though Aysha imagined judgment in every flicker. Back home, she locked the master bathroom door, peed on the stick with shaking hands, and waited on the marble counter, knees bouncing, the house silent around her. Two lines. Clear. Undeniable. Pregnant at forty-nine, a miracle or a curse.

Taimur found her there, still in her towel, the test clutched in fingers gone white. He took it gently, stared at the pink lines, then looked at her face—pale, eyes wide with terror. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. She nodded, throat tight. “I’m forty-nine. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.” His laugh was sharp, almost hysterical, echoing off the tiles. “Nothing about us was supposed to happen.” He pulled her into his arms, towel slipping, her naked body pressing against his clothed one, but there was no arousal now—only the weight of consequence.

They didn’t speak of abortion; the word felt like a blade neither could wield, too sharp against the life already stirring. Instead, they moved through the house like ghosts in a storm, fucking with a new desperation that bordered on punishment. In the upstairs study, rain pattering the window, her bent over Farooq’s old desk, papers scattering—bills, photos— as he took her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other rubbing her clit until she sobbed, cumming around him as he filled her again. Each time he came inside her, eyes locked on hers in the mirror across the room, a silent question: Again? Deeper? Each time she answered by pulling him closer, legs spreading wider, her body craving the flood despite the fear.

Her body changed fast, betrayingly. Breasts heavier, swelling against her bras, nipples dark and tender, aching at the brush of fabric. A faint blue vein traced the swell of one, visible when she caught Taimur staring in the mirror one morning, his hand hovering over the curve of her stomach still flat but promising. “It’s real,” he whispered, awe and guilt warring in his voice. She turned, pressed his palm flat against the warmth, guiding lower to where she was already wet. “Feel,” she said, and his fingers slipped inside her easily, curling, making her knees buckle. His cock hardened against her thigh instantly, and they fucked right there against the sink, water running forgotten, her moans fogging the mirror.

The nausea hit in the sixth week, violent and unrelenting. She retched over the toilet in the guest bathroom, bile burning her throat, while Taimur held her hair back with one hand, the other rubbing circles on her back, kissing the nape of her neck between heaves, his lips soft against sweat-damp skin. “I did this to you,” he said, voice cracking with remorse. She laughed, bitter and soft, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “We did this to us,” she corrected, but leaned into him anyway, letting him carry her to bed where he spooned her, hand splayed protectively over her belly, his erection pressing against her ass but untouched—comfort over conquest for once.

Society noticed the shifts, subtle but accumulating. Her sister called from Lahore, voice sharp over the crackling line: “You’ve put on weight, Aysha. Are you eating your feelings? Grief does that.” The maid raised an eyebrow at the sudden ginger tea brewing constantly, the aversion to coffee that used to be her morning ritual, sheets changed even more frequently now with the mess of their passion and her morning sickness. Taimur’s friends teased him about the “glow” he wore like cologne, the way he smiled absently during calls, distracted. He smiled, lied smoothly—“Just work stress easing up”—then came home and fucked her on the stairs, her skirt rucked up around her waist, his hand between her legs stroking her to orgasm until she sobbed his name, cum leaking down the steps.

One night in October, the power cut out again, plunging them into darkness lit only by city lights flickering through rain-streaked windows. They lay in her bed—Farooq’s bed—the sheets tangled, her on her side, his chest to her back, one hand splayed over the small swell of her belly just beginning to show under loose kurtas. He moved slowly inside her from behind, almost tender, hips rolling in a rhythm older than guilt, his cock sliding in and out with wet sounds, her pussy accommodating him perfectly. “I want to keep it,” he said against her ear, the words hanging monstrous and true in the humid air. She turned in his arms, tears slick on her cheeks, illuminated by a flash of lightning. “They’ll destroy us,” she whispered, hand cupping his face. “Family, society—everything.” “They already have,” he said, thrusting deeper, making her gasp. “This is what’s left. Us. This.” She came quietly, biting the pillow to muffle the sound, her body clenching around him in waves that milked his release. He followed, buried deep, pulsing into her with a groan that sounded like surrender, his seed mixing with what had already taken root.

Afterward, she traced the line of his jaw, the sweat at his temple, her foot sliding along his calf in absent comfort. “If it’s a boy,” she whispered, voice breaking, “we’ll name him Farooq.” He flinched, the name a bridge to the past and a wound reopened, but nodded, pulling her closer. The rain eased to a drizzle, the city sleeping on, unaware of the storm within their walls. Winter crept in slowly, jacarandas shedding purple carpets that the rain washed away. She wore loose kurtas now, told nosy neighbors it was “yoga weight” from her daily sessions, hiding the curve. Taimur bought prenatal vitamins online, picked them up from a discreet pharmacy in Blue Area, slipping them into her tea like secrets. They made love in the dark more often, her on top to accommodate the growing belly, feet planted on the mattress, rising and falling slowly, his hands on her hips guiding. He kissed the faint linea nigra snaking down her abdomen, licked the salt from her skin, came inside her with his face pressed to her throat, whispering endearments that blurred mother and lover.

In December, the ultrasound confirmed it in a sterile clinic in F-8: a boy, heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird on the grainy screen, strong and insistent. Aysha stared, Taimur’s hand crushing hers, knuckles white. The technician smiled obliviously, pointing out tiny limbs. “Strong heartbeat. Everything looks perfect. Congratulations.” That night, they didn’t fuck. He held her in the dark as she cried, great heaving sobs that shook them both, her belly between them like a fragile barrier. “I’m scared,” she admitted, voice small. “Of the birth, of what comes after. Of losing you.” “Me too,” he answered, kissing her tears. “But I’m not sorry. Not for this. Not for us.” Spring loomed with the promise of birth, jacarandas blooming defiantly. They had no plan, only the fragile certainty of skin on skin, the kick beneath her ribs growing stronger, the way he still looked at her like she was the first woman he’d ever seen—and the last he ever would. Outside, Islamabad carried on; inside, their world narrowed to heartbeats—hers, his, and the one growing in the forbidden place they had made, a testament to recklessness and unbreakable bond.