Hey, I’m Rah from Hyderabad, and this is my story—hot as hell and straight from the gut. If you wanna hit me up or tell me how you liked it, drop me a line at [email protected].
I’m a middle-class guy, athletic, 5’9”, and used to work at an insurance company. They gave me mobile numbers to cold-call customers, pitching our plans. Hours of calls wore me out, but one day, I dialed a random number and got a woman. Gave her the insurance spiel, and she cut in, “Your details aren’t clicking over the phone. Can you come explain at my place?” I got my boss’s okay, hopped on my bike, and rode to her address. Her name was Pooja—not some aunty, though. When I saw her, I was floored. Her body wasn’t middle-aged—it was tight, curvy, like a virgin babe’s. She called me in, took the details, but kept staring—like she’d eat me alive. I left my number, “Call if you’ve got doubts,” and split.
Two days later, Pooja rang. “Rah, I’ve got some doubts about your product.” Cleared them up. Next day, another call, another doubt—sorted that too. Then, that night, a new number hit me up. I was dead asleep, missed it. Called back next morning—it was Pooja. “This is my other number,” she said, “for special calls.” That threw me. “Why’d you call me from this?” I asked. Silence. I pushed, “Wanna be friends?” She laughed, “Rah, that’s why I called—to get close.”
Days passed, Pooja hitting me up, chatting about random shit—never insurance. My mind went dark—dirty thoughts piling up. She was the kind of woman you’d die for after one look. Soon, I thought, “Let’s test her. If she’s game, cool—if not, no loss.” That night, I called, “Why do you always ring me late? Doesn’t your husband mind?” She went quiet—I panicked, thinking I’d fucked up. Then she said, “If he was around, yeah, it’d be a problem. But he’s far off in the USA.” My brain lit up—jackpot! “Then why cry about it?” I teased.
Pooja sighed, “Since he left, it’s just me and my 2-year-old daughter in this complex—alone.” I jumped in, “Alone? Nah, you’ve got me. Any trouble, just say it, no hesitation, right?” She went quiet, agreed.
Next day, she called again. We rambled—same old shit. I’d nudge her, “Pick a fresh topic,” while wrestling with how to spill my real craving: fucking her. Lost in thought, Pooja brought up a new movie. “Rah, seen it?” “Yeah,” I said. “What’d you like most?” she asked. I hesitated—don’t piss her off—then said, “The passionate scene that went all the way.” She pressed, “All the way?” I mumbled, “The sex part—it was hot.” Silence. Then, “Rah, you ever had sex, or just watch it in movies?” “Nope, never done it,” I admitted. “How do you hold back?” she asked. “Same way you do without your husband,” I shot back. She went dead quiet. “Pooja, why so silent? Can I help—fill his spot?” She froze, cut the call.
I freaked—did I fuck it up? Then an SMS pinged: “Yes.” I called instantly, “Pooja, when you free?” “I’ll set a time,” she said. Next morning, her text hit: “Today, 2:30.” I rolled up to her complex bang on time. Door swung open—Pooja in a see-through nightie. My jaw dropped. Sat on the sofa, her next to me on another. We chatted bullshit, eyes locked. I slid closer, grabbed her face, planted a deep lip-to-lip kiss, pulled her into my arms. “Permission?” I growled. She nodded yes. Scooped her up, took her to the bed.
Laid Pooja down, started kissing hard, ripped her nightie off. She turned her face—shy, maybe. I peeled off my T-shirt and jeans. Dropped my underwear—a steel rod tented out. She saw it, sparked with heat. Kept kissing, yanked her bra off, hands roaming her tits. Slid a hand into her panties, rubbed her pussy lips—she lit up like a live wire. Pulled her panties down—naked as fuck now. I ditched my boxers, my cock swinging free. She stared. “Suck it,” I said. She took it in her mouth, sucked slow—fuck, it felt good.
After a bit, Pooja gasped, “Rah, I can’t wait—do it!” Laid her flat, rubbed my cock on her pussy lips. She squirmed, “Rah, please—inside—can’t take it!” Spread her legs wide, set my cock at her tight cunt—damn, she hadn’t fucked in ages, so fucking snug. Eased it in slow—her soft scream hit, “Ahhh!” Full in, I picked up speed, pounding Pooja’s pussy. She matched me, moaning, “Rah, don’t stop—keep fucking!” Gave her the ride of her life—three rounds that day. We quenched our thirst, tangled on the bed after. Only fucked twice more after that—her husband came back from the USA, took her with him. Been quiet since.
Wanna hit me up or rate my story? Email me at [email protected]. Drop your thoughts in the comments—keeps me pumping out hotter tales!