Twelve months later, I feel it’s time to put pen to paper—figuratively speaking—and share the events that turned my life upside down. First, let me introduce myself. I’m Jayshree, a 52-year-old college professor and housewife, married with two grown children. My husband, Ramesh, has always been average in bed—once or twice a week, mechanical, with little regard for my needs or desires. Honestly, I never pushed for more, assuming that’s just how it was for most married women. But then, my eldest son’s wedding happened, and everything changed.
My son, Rohan, and his fiancée, Neha, live and work in the UK, but their wedding was set to take place in India. The reception was booked at the Holiday Inn, and our entire family arranged to stay there for Friday and Saturday nights. The big day arrived, and it was spectacular in more ways than one. The wedding ceremony was beautiful, and as the groom’s mother, I was emotional, tears streaming down my face. The reception was just as perfect—witty speeches, delicious food, and endless drinks. It was the alcohol that sparked the chain of events leading to a life-altering experience.
By around 4 p.m., the reception wound down, giving us a few hours before the evening disco party. Most guests, tipsy from the open bar, stumbled to their rooms for a nap. Ramesh headed straight back to our room, but I stayed behind, chatting with my younger sister, Mamta. We gossiped for so long that I was left alone when we finally wrapped up. No worries—I knew our room was number 236, and despite the hotel’s maze-like corridors, I was confident I could find it. I didn’t have a key, so I knocked, expecting Ramesh to let me in.
When the door swung open, I froze. Standing before me were four or five Black men, half-naked, wearing only underwear or towels wrapped around their waists. Their bodies glistened, as if they’d just showered. Shocked, I turned to leave, but the man who opened the door stopped me with a deep, inviting voice. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.” His smile was disarming, and something in his tone held me in place.
It was a pivotal moment. I glanced down the empty corridor, then back into the room. There, I noticed another woman—around 30, tall, slim, and strikingly beautiful, dressed in barely anything. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and mischief. I took a deep breath and, against all reason, stepped inside. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the suppressed desires I’d buried for 25 years, but I knew I had to do this.
As I entered, my body trembled with a mix of fear and exhilaration. I had no idea what was about to happen, but every fiber of me was alive. There was no pretense, no small talk. Two men approached me, their hands swift and confident. My saree—the expensive one I’d bought specially for my son’s wedding—was unraveled in seconds, pooling at my feet. My blouse was next, buttons undone and fabric yanked off my chest. My bra held on briefly before strong hands unhooked it, freeing my full breasts. My nipples hardened instantly under their gaze, and a soft moan escaped my lips as rough fingers pinched and tugged at them.
At the same time, other hands found my petticoat, sliding it down. Fingers grazed my pussy through my panties, sending shivers up my spine. I felt a hard cock press against my ass, grinding against me through the thin fabric. Instinctively, my hand reached back and gripped it. It was massive—thicker and longer than anything I’d ever felt, dwarfing my husband’s average size. My breath hitched, my heart pounding as desire overtook me.
The other woman, who I later learned was named Riya, slid closer. Her hand rested on my waist as she whispered in my ear, “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t handle all these guys alone.” Her voice was sultry, and she revealed she’d been hired through an agency for this gangbang. “It was supposed to be just five guys,” she said with a smirk, “but now there’s at least a dozen.”
An agency for gangbangs? The thought blew my mind. In my sheltered life, I’d never imagined such things existed. By now, my panties were pulled down, and I felt a flush of embarrassment as I realized how wet I was. Unlike with Ramesh, who needed ages to get me aroused, I was dripping in minutes. The men noticed, chuckling. “Look at this slut, already soaked,” one said, his voice dripping with lust. “Let’s get this party started,” another growled.
Fingers slid into my pussy, slow at first, then faster, curling inside me. “Ohhh… fuck!” I moaned loudly, my voice echoing in the room. The men cheered, egging me on. They called me names—slut, whore, bitch—and instead of shame, I felt empowered, liberated. My petticoat hit the floor, leaving me completely naked in a room full of horny men, each one eager to have me.
They pushed me to my knees, and a massive cock was thrust in front of my face. Its musky scent hit me, and I opened my mouth, taking it in. My tongue swirled around the thick head, tasting the saltiness as I sucked eagerly. “Mmm… ohhh,” I moaned around it, my lips stretched wide. Fingers were back between my legs, probing my pussy, while another hand teased my clit. “Fuck… yes… more!” I gasped, my voice muffled by the cock in my mouth.
Then, without warning, a huge cock entered me from behind. “Ahhh!” I screamed as it stretched my pussy, filling me in a way I’d never experienced. “So fucking tight,” the man groaned, starting to thrust. The wet sounds of my pussy—slap, slap, slap—filled the room as he fucked me slow and deep. I rocked my hips back, matching his rhythm, lost in the pleasure. The cock in my mouth throbbed, and I sucked harder, my tongue dancing along its length. “Suck it, you dirty slut,” he growled, and I obeyed, loving every second.
I grabbed two more cocks, one in each hand, stroking and licking them in turn. “Mmm… so big… fuck,” I moaned, my voice dripping with lust. The thrusts behind me grew faster, harder, the wet slaps echoing louder. “Slap-slap-slap!” My pussy clenched around him, and I felt the pressure building. “Ohhh… I’m gonna cum!” I screamed, and my body shook as the most intense orgasm of my life tore through me. My pussy pulsed, my moans turning to cries of “Yes… ohhh… fuck!”
The cock in my mouth erupted, hot cum shooting down my throat. I swallowed what I could, but more spilled out, dripping down my chin and onto my breasts. I collapsed to the floor, gasping, but they didn’t let me rest. My legs were spread, and another cock plunged into my dripping pussy. “Ahhh… yes… fuck me!” I begged, moving my hips to meet his thrusts. “Slap-slap-slap!” The sounds were obscene, and I loved it. I grabbed two more cocks, sucking and stroking them, moaning filthy things I’d never dared say before. “Cum on me… fuck my pussy… ohhh!”
Both men came at once, their hot cum spraying across my face, breasts, and stomach. The man fucking me followed, filling my pussy with his load. “Ohhh… yes… fill me up!” I cried, my body trembling. The thought of unprotected sex crossed my mind, but I was too far gone to care. At my age, I figured it wasn’t an issue.
It went on like that—each man taking me in some way, some fucking my pussy, others my mouth, their hands all over me. Riya was getting her share too, her moans mixing with mine. At one point, we were side by side on the bed, both getting fucked hard. “Slap-slap-slap!” Our pussies made the same wet sounds, and she reached over, her fingers finding my clit. “Ohhh… Riya… yes!” I moaned, shocked but thrilled. I’d never thought about women before, but in that moment, I leaned over and kissed her deeply, our tongues tangling as we both moaned into each other’s mouths.
Then reality hit. I glanced at my watch—over two hours had passed. Panic set in. If I didn’t get back soon, my absence would be noticed. I pushed through the crowd of men, scrambling for my clothes. My saree was crumpled, my blouse stained, my hair sticky with cum. I stumbled to the bathroom, dressing as best I could and trying to fix my makeup. The men protested, but I insisted, “I have to go!”
In the corridor, I checked both ways to ensure no one saw me. Then it hit me—I’d gone to room 226, not 236. I rushed to the right room and knocked. Ramesh opened the door, half-asleep. “Where were you? Took you long enough,” he mumbled. I laughed it off, saying, “Just chatting with Mamta. Need the bathroom.”
I pushed past him, locking myself in the bathroom. “I need a shower,” I called out, “to freshen up for tonight.” Ten minutes later, I emerged, and Ramesh was fast asleep. The evening event was a success, but my mind was elsewhere. I was the life of the party, especially popular with my son’s friends—maybe my newfound confidence was shining through. When Mamta commented on how happy I looked, I brushed it off, blaming it on the wedding. But inside, I was reeling. I’d joined a gangbang at my son’s wedding. Was it wrong? No—it made me feel alive, happier than I’d ever been.
Back home, I knew I couldn’t return to my old, monotonous life. Through the internet, I connected with men—not too local, to avoid my students or anyone I know. Now, I indulge at least once a month. Sex has become an incredible hobby. I know I’m a slut, a whore, and I love every second of it.
Weeks later, I was checking my phone for a photo I’d taken at the wedding. I rarely take pictures, so I was stunned to find one of me, half-naked, surrounded by men, with Riya, fully nude, beside me. One of the guys must have found my phone in my bag, snapped the shot, and put it back without telling me. If Ramesh had seen it, I’d be done for. But that photo is a cherished reminder of the day my life changed forever.
What did you think of this story? Have you ever had a wild night like this? Share your thoughts in the comments below!