Aysha and Taimur: The Unravelling

The house in F-7/2 had always been too large for three people, its marble corridors echoing with the ghosts of conversations that never quite filled the space. After Engr. Farooq Ahmed's funeral, it became cavernous, a mausoleum of polished brass and unspoken grief. Aysha, forty-nine and suddenly a widow, drifted from room to room in the first weeks, her bare feet silent on the cool stone floors. She touched the brass nameplate that still read “Engr. Farooq Ahmed & Family,” folded his monogrammed handkerchiefs with mechanical precision, and watered the bonsai on the veranda that he had tended like fragile children. Grief was a dull ache behind her sternum, but sharper was the silence: no footsteps on the stairs at 6:45 a.m., no newspaper rustling at breakfast, no clipped voice asking where his cufflinks had gone. The air smelled faintly of his cologne lingering in the closets, a cruel reminder that mingled with the scent of rain-soaked earth from the Margalla Hills beyond the high white walls.

Taimur, twenty-six and broad-shouldered from years of gym sessions and weekend cricket, took indefinite leave from his advertising agency in Blue Area. He told his boss it was for the forty-day mourning period; privately, he couldn't stomach the fluorescent office lights while his mother looked like a candle burning down to the wick. He moved into the guest room on the ground floor—closer to her bedroom—so he could hear if she woke gasping from nightmares. At first, it was practical. He cooked: daal chawal with just the right tempering of cumin, chicken karahi simmering with tomatoes that burst under the spoon, whatever the cook left half-prepared before departing at dusk. He coaxed Aysha to eat two bites, then three, his voice gentle but insistent. He sat with her on the sofa while she stared at the muted television, his hand resting on the cushion between them, inches from hers. When she finally cried—silent tears tracking the powder she still applied out of habit—he pulled her against his chest without thinking. She smelled of attar and warm skin; he smelled of the gym and the city dust clinging to his blazer. She clung to him longer than necessary, fingers twisted in his T-shirt, and he let her, feeling the soft weight of her breasts against his ribs, the tremor in her body that wasn't just sorrow.

The shift was gradual, almost geological, like the slow erosion of the hills outside. Week two: Aysha began sleeping in Farooq’s cotton kurtas because they still carried his scent—faint sandalwood and starch. One night the air-conditioner died amid a prolonged load-shedding; she padded downstairs in nothing but the kurta, thighs bare and pale in the dim emergency light, hair loose and tousled from restless sleep. Taimur was on the sofa scrolling through his phone, shirtless in the oppressive heat, sweat beading along the ridges of his abdomen. She asked for water, her voice a whisper in the humid dark. He stood to fetch it from the kitchen, and when he handed her the glass, their fingers brushed—hers cool from the fridge, his warm and calloused. She didn’t step back. The kurta’s hem grazed mid-thigh; he noticed the faint stretch marks low on her hips, silver threads in the half-light, remnants of carrying him all those years ago. Something hot coiled in his stomach, a forbidden heat that made his cock twitch against his shorts. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to hers, but she only sipped the water, throat working, a single droplet escaping to trail down her chin and between her breasts.

Week four: The tailor came for Eid measurements, an old man from G-9 with gnarled hands and a measuring tape that whispered over fabric. Aysha stood on the low wooden stool in the sitting room, arms outstretched, while he chalked her waist, her hips, the curve of her bust. Taimur lounged in the doorway, pretending to read emails on his phone, but his gaze was fixed on her. When the tape circled her chest, she inhaled deeply, and the soft weight of her breasts lifted against the linen kameez, nipples faintly visible through the thin material in the afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains. Taimur’s mouth went dry, a rush of blood southward that he had to shift to hide. Later, alone in the shower, steam filling the bathroom with the scent of his cedarwood body wash, he pictured the tailor’s fingers—rough, intrusive—and hated them with a jealousy that shocked him. He braced one hand against the tiles, the other wrapping around his thickening cock, stroking hard and fast. Her name escaped his lips in a silent curse as he came, ropes of cum splattering the marble, forehead pressed to the cool wall, guilt and lust twisting like vines.

Week six: The nightmares worsened, pulling Aysha from sleep at 3 a.m., convinced she heard Farooq calling from the corridor, his voice echoing like it did in their old arguments. She found Taimur in the kitchen brewing chai to calm his own racing thoughts, the gas flame blue under the kettle. Without a word, she walked into his arms, her body soft and yielding against his harder frame. He held her, cheek against her hair, inhaling the faint jasmine of her shampoo, feeling her tremble like a leaf in the pre-dawn breeze from the open window. When she tilted her face up—eyes wide and shadowed, lips parted in vulnerability—he kissed her forehead, meaning only comfort. But she rose on tiptoe and caught his mouth instead. It was soft, chaste, over in a heartbeat, tasting of salt and unspoken need. They sprang apart as if burned, the kettle whistling shrilly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, backing away, her hand to her lips. He couldn’t speak, his heart pounding, cock half-hard from the brief press of her body.

Week eight: The power cuts grew longer, plunging the house into humid dark more nights than not. One evening the generator failed entirely; Aysha lit candles in the drawing room, their flames flickering over silk rugs and the framed photos of happier times—wedding pictures with Farooq's arm around her waist, Taimur’s first birthday with cake smeared on his chubby cheeks. She looked up from sorting the albums, candlelight gilding the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone exposed by the low neckline of her kurta. “I forget what he sounded like,” she said, voice breaking. Taimur knelt beside her, took the photo from her hand, set it aside gently. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing the tears on her cheeks. This time the kiss wasn’t chaste. Her lips parted under his; her tongue met his, tentative at first, then hungry, exploring with a desperation born of months of restraint. When they broke apart, she was shaking, breath coming in gasps. “We shouldn’t,” she breathed, but her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. He answered by kissing her again, deeper, until her back met the rug and his knee slid between hers, pressing against the heat he could feel radiating through her shalwar.

They stopped short of more—hands roaming under clothes, his palms cupping the heavy warmth of her breasts, thumbs circling nipples that hardened instantly; her fingers tracing the V of his hips, brushing the bulge straining his pants—but clothes stayed on, a fragile barrier. Afterward, they lay side by side on the rug, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling where shadows danced like accusations. “Tomorrow we pretend this didn’t happen,” she said, voice steady but eyes averted. He threaded his fingers through hers, feeling the wedding ring she still wore. “Okay,” he lied, knowing the lie tasted like her on his tongue.

Week ten: Pretence lasted three days, crumbling under the weight of stolen glances and accidental touches. On the fourth, rain lashed the windows like punishment; thunder rolled over the hills like artillery from a forgotten war. Aysha came to his room in a thin cotton nightgown, soaked from checking the terrace doors against the storm. Water plastered the fabric to her body, outlining every curve—breasts heavy and swaying, nipples dark and erect against the white, the shadow between her thighs. Taimur sat up in bed, sheet pooled at his waist, his own arousal evident. She crawled in beside him without a word, shivering. Lightning flashed; in the white glare, he saw her eyes—fear, want, surrender. He peeled the nightgown over her head slowly, reverently. She was naked underneath, skin goosebumped, the faint silver stretch marks on her belly and hips glowing like secrets.

He kissed her slowly—collarbone, the slope of each breast, sucking a nipple into his mouth until she arched with a gasp; the soft skin below her navel, tasting rain and her. When his mouth found her center, parting slick folds with his tongue, she gasped his name—“Taimur, beta”—the words tangled in taboo. He licked her slowly, deliberately, from entrance to clit, circling until her hips bucked, fingers twisted in his hair pulling hard enough to sting. She came with a cry muffled against her own arm, thighs clamping his head, flooding his mouth with her essence. Only then did he rise, push his boxers down, his cock jutting thick and flushed, a bead of pre-cum at the tip. He entered her in one careful thrust, pausing as she adjusted to his size—tight, wet, trembling around him. They moved together in the storm’s rhythm, rain drumming the roof like a heartbeat, her heels digging into his back, urging deeper. When she came again, she bit his shoulder to stay quiet, teeth marking him; he followed, muffling his groan against her neck, pulsing inside her bare for the first time, the heat of his release filling her completely.

Afterward, she traced the bite mark she’d left, fingers trembling. “This is the point of no return,” she whispered, voice raw with the weight of it. He pulled her closer, their sweat-slick bodies entwined, the storm raging outside mirroring the one within. The house in F-7/2 stood sentinel behind its steel gate, walls thick with secrets, as Islamabad slept unaware. But inside, the air had changed—charged, electric, the slow unraveling complete. They had crossed the line, and there was no pretending anymore.