Supriya – The innocent girl

Arjun was 27. Tall, confident, and successful, he lived alone in a modest but stylish apartment in Chennai. A structural engineer by profession, he was smart, efficient, and charming. The kind of guy people looked up to at work and liked to invite to parties.

Yet despite the constant swirl of activity in his social life, there was always a part of him that felt untouched. Alone. One late evening, he was lounging on his bed, lazily scrolling through Instagram, when a WhatsApp notification popped up.

“Hi”

No name. Just a number he didn’t recognize. Curious, he typed back.

“Who’s this?”

The reply came within seconds.

“Supriya. Do you remember me?”

He blinked. The name struck something faint in his memory. “Supriya?”

“Mami’s niece. I met you when you visited our village years ago.”

And then it clicked. She had been a kid then — maybe thirteen? Back when Arjun was a college student and had gone to attend his maternal uncle’s wedding. She was that quiet, dusky-eyed schoolgirl. She lingered in corners, too young to mingle with the adults but too poised to be ignored.

She had delicate features, long black hair, and a kind of innocence that had made her stand out even back then. He remembered a moment — brief but oddly vivid. She had been sweeping the floor in her home. He’d been sitting nearby, bored.

The way her top shifted as she bent made him glance more out of idle curiosity than anything else. He had noticed how flat her chest was. Her breasts barely developed. He quickly looked away, feeling awkward and guilty for even noticing.

Now, she was texting him from a college in Chennai. Apparently, she is in her third year. He smiled a little to himself how life looped back in strange ways.
“I was bored,” she typed, “and didn’t know who to message.”

Arjun, still unsure where this was going, replied politely. She was sweet, shy, and, from what he gathered, a little naive. She didn’t know much about the city, and her texts were filled with small questions.

What do you usually do when you’re bored? What do boys do alone? Why do men stay unmarried until 30?

At first, Arjun found her conversations bland. She came across as sheltered like someone still figuring out the world. But something about her persistence, her quiet curiosity, began to interest him. Not in a sexual way, not yet. But in that space between boredom and the unknown, where something new starts to form.

Days passed. They kept texting. And then, one day, he was in the shower, watching porn on his phone, stroking his cock lazily. Her message popped up.

“What are you doing?”

Frustrated, panting slightly, he typed back without thinking: “Masturbating.”

A moment passed. “What’s that?”

He stared at the screen, blinking. “You don’t know?”

“No. What is porn? What’s masturbating?”

He stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped a towel around his waist, and called her. “Are you seriously this dumb? Or just trying to mess with me?”

Her voice came through the speaker, soft and sincere. “I really don’t know. I didn’t grow up with all this internet stuff.”

He sighed. “Then Google it.”

She did. A few minutes later, his phone lit up. “Yuck. Why do you do that?”

“Because I get aroused,” he typed, now a little amused.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m turned on. I’m a man. I have a dick. It happens.”

Then, as if wanting to push the edge further, he sent her a porn link.
There was silence for a while. But from that moment, something shifted between them.

From that day on, their chats became more personal. Intimate. And confusing.
Supriya didn’t shy away from asking questions. She was like a child with a forbidden toy — scared of it but unable to stop reaching it.

Every day, she texted him:

“Did you masturbate today?”

“What porn did you watch?”

“Do men really do that every day?”

At first, it amused Arjun. He’d respond lightly.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Going to do it now.”

But then, something changed. One evening, she asked him if he was aroused. He replied honestly — “No. Not today.”

“Why not?”

“Just not into porn right now.”

“Then what would make you aroused?”

He hesitated. Then, he typed slowly. “Seeing a real girl. Feeling her skin. Her boobs. Her pussy. Everything.” He stared at the message before sending it. Once it was out, his heart thudded. Would she back off? Block him?

But she didn’t. Instead, she wrote: “What do you want to do to her?”
That text made his cock stir instantly.

And just like that, it began — an unspoken dance between experience and innocence. He described things to her. What a blowjob felt like. What a girl’s body looked like when she undressed slowly. What it was like to bury his face between her legs, to hear her moan.

He told her, one night, that he was masturbating to the thought of her asking him those questions. Her reply was short but telling: “I feel like I did something right.”

Arjun should’ve pulled back. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. She wasn’t teasing him. She was learning from him — and liking it. And part of him, the darker part, loved watching her awaken.

It was a long weekend coming up. Both of them were planning to visit their hometowns — by coincidence, on the same day. When he asked how she was travelling, she said by bus. Early morning.

“Skip the bus,” he offered.

“Ride with me. I’m driving.”

She hesitated. Then agreed. They planned it for 3:30 a.m. when the city would still be asleep. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions. More space. When she stepped into the car, fully covered, hair tied back, her breath visible in the chilly air, Arjun’s throat dried. She smelled like soap. And innocence.

She smiled at him, unsure but trying to hide it. They drove in silence for a while. Roads were empty. Lights dim. The inside of the car felt like a bubble, separate from the rest of the world.

And then, like a ritual now, she asked: “Did you masturbate today?”

Arjun laughed softly. “No. But… I feel like doing it now.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Now? While driving?”

He smirked. “I don’t know. I’m hard already.”

She blinked. “Then stop the car. I’ll get down. You do it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If you get out, the mood’s gone.”

A pause. “Then what can I do?”

His breath caught. He said it as a joke, or so he told himself: “You can do it for me.”

She didn’t laugh. “Okay. Tell me how.”

His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. He guided her hand to his lap. His cock was already straining against the fabric. Her fingers trembled as they undid the button and slid the zipper down. She fumbled, innocent and clumsy but determined.

When she pulled his cock free, it stood thick and pulsing in the dim light. Her gasp was soft — a mix of shock and something else.

“Now what?”

“Hold it. Stroke it. Slowly at first.”

She did. Her grip was unsure, but her touch was electric. The slow glide of her palm, the shy way she peeked at him — it was all too much. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Faster. Yeah… like that.”

After a few minutes, she asked: “How long does this take?”

“Sometimes… longer. Maybe it needs more.”

She didn’t understand. He looked at her carefully. “Maybe a blowjob.”

She paused. “I can’t do that. I’ll feel like throwing up.”

He nodded. “Okay. Then just your hand.”

But she didn’t let it go. A few minutes later, she said: “Let’s stop the car. Back seat. I’ll try.”

They pulled into a quiet lane, trees casting deep shadows. He turned off the headlights, the dashboard lights, everything. The world outside vanished. Just them. Breathing.

Supriya sat first in the back seat. He joined her, knees brushing. She took a deep breath and lowered her head. Her lips grazed the tip of his cock — warm, soft. But as soon as it touched her tongue, she gagged lightly and pulled away, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he cupped her chin gently, “It’s okay. You tried. Just use your hand.”

She looked relieved. And this time, her strokes were more confident. She leaned in closer, her shawl slipping from her shoulder, revealing a flash of her collarbone. Her grip tightened. Her rhythm was built. He groaned, chest rising.

And then he cum — hard, hot pulses spilling over her fingers. For a moment, she sat still, watching it drip from her hand. Then she looked at him with a strange kind of pride. Not disgust. No shame. Just wonder.

Arjun, breathless, swiped some of his cum and, with a playful grin, dabbed it on her cheek. “Idiot,” she whispered, laughing quietly. She wiped her face with her shawl — not flustered, not angry. She didn’t rush to clean it, didn’t ask to go back. Just wiped and returned to the front seat.

When he followed her up, they sat in silence again. This time, it was not awkward but full of charged, unspoken understanding. He looked at her sideways.

“I only touched your right boob. What if the left one gets jealous?”

She didn’t look at him, just smiled and said, “Let it. You drive.”

But just before they reached her village, she took his hand, slid it inside her shawl, and placed it over her left breast. Her heart was racing beneath his palm.
“There. So you don’t feel bad either.”

That moment — small, simple, real — was when Arjun realized he hadn’t just fallen for her body. He was falling for her.