I'm open to chat but not looking for a "bull"
I am 28 and Indian living in the UK. Two weeks ago our office had its summer party. I wore a new red dress that was short but still fine for work.
I danced with so many colleagues. Their hands stayed on my waist and hips longer than usual once everyone was drunk a little or tipsy. One kept his hand low and another brushed my thigh. My friend was trying to save me from them.
They opened the bar to the public after that. More guys came in. One was bold from the start. He was not a colleague. He had a strong energy. He pulled me close and danced pressed tight against me. I could feel him against my body. Then he said he wanted to take me home.
I went with him.
In the taxi he kept his hand under my dress the whole way. His fingers moved higher and higher.
Only my work bestie knows.
​
I am Indian. Growing up sex was something people never spoke about. Not in jokes. Not in serious talks. Not even in whispers if they could help it. It felt like a secret everyone knew existed but no one was allowed to touch. I still had sex there a few times. Quietly. With a lot of guilt sitting on my chest the whole time. A few years ago I moved to the UK. Everything changed. Sex is just part of normal life here. People talk about it. They look for it. They take it when they want it. I have had more of it since I arrived. Better sex. More often. Less shame attached to it.
But that change makes me think a lot. It is so easy for women to get sex if they want it. One message. One look. One yes. The door opens fast. For most men it is the opposite. A small group of guys seem to get it all the time. The rest keep trying and getting turned down. I notice this difference every time I am out or online and it sticks in my head.
I am not looking for someone to argue with me about numbers. I want the honest version. What it feels like from your side. The parts you usually keep quiet. The dirty thoughts that come when you stop pretending the world is fair.
If any of this sits in the same place in your mind write back. Tell me your side. Tell me what you want when no one is watching. I am curious and open and ready to go as deep or as filthy as the conversation wants to go.
I am Indian. Growing up sex was something people never spoke about. Not in jokes. Not in serious talks. Not even in whispers if they could help it. It felt like a secret everyone knew existed but no one was allowed to touch. I still had sex there a few times. Quietly. With a lot of guilt sitting on my chest the whole time. A few years ago I moved to the UK. Everything changed. Sex is just part of normal life here. People talk about it. They look for it. They take it when they want it. I have had more of it since I arrived. Better sex. More often. Less shame attached to it.
But that change makes me think a lot. It is so easy for women to get sex if they want it. One message. One look. One yes. The door opens fast. For most men it is the opposite. A small group of guys seem to get it all the time. The rest keep trying and getting turned down. I notice this difference every time I am out or online and it sticks in my head.
I am not looking for someone to argue with me about numbers. I want the honest version. What it feels like from your side. The parts you usually keep quiet. The dirty thoughts that come when you stop pretending the world is fair.
If any of this sits in the same place in your mind write back. Tell me your side. Tell me what you want when no one is watching. I am curious and open and ready to go as deep or as filthy as the conversation wants to go.
The negative comments on my last post left me feeling low. I never meant to hurt anyone. Still I will not soften what happened.
Talking about it on Reddit felt so hot though. No regrets.
I am 28. Indian. Living in the UK. Last week my office had a summer party. I wore a new red dress. It was short but still fine for work. Early on some Indian guys from the office kept coming near me. They hovered and forced talks. Tried to dance too close. I hated it. Their looks made me feel annoyed.
Later I danced with other colleagues. Their hands stayed on my waist and hips longer than normal.
Then the bar opened to the public. A man came over. We danced tight against me. He said he wanted to take me home. I was a bit tipsy but I looked at him and said yes.
I left with him.
In the taxi his hand went under my dress the whole way.
Only my work bestie knows.
Looking for a chat.
Knowing something personal about me can feel powerful. It can also feel really embarrassing. I am submissive.
I get this feeling when another person especially a stranger knows what I am like under my clothes. Or if I am hairy down there. Things like that. It is the idea that someone else holds that kind of knowledge about my body. It makes me feel small and seen at the same time.
I like when someone asks me quiet questions about it. Or makes me describe things I usually keep private. The embarrassment is part of what draws me in.
If that sounds interesting to you message me. You can tell me what you would want to know.
Looking for a chat. Please be literate.
Knowing something personal about me can feel powerful. It can also feel really embarrassing. I am submissive.
I get this feeling when another person especially a stranger knows what I am like under my clothes. Or if I am hairy down there. Things like that. It is the idea that someone else holds that kind of knowledge about my body. It makes me feel small and seen at the same time.
I like when someone asks me quiet questions about it. Or makes me describe things I usually keep private. The embarrassment is part of what draws me in.
If that sounds interesting to you message me. You can tell me what you would want to know.
I’m not a real cop. Contract analyst. Civilian. Quiet Indian wife. Soft spoken. The kind they pull in when they need a face that doesn’t scream badge.
They needed someone undercover. Someone who looked breakable in the right way. They chose me. My husband begged me not to. Sat on the edge of the bed, voice tight. You’re not trained for this. Walk away.
I should have listened.
But someone finally looked at me like I was useful. Not just the obedient wife who comes home and keeps her head down. They saw me. I wanted to do something that mattered. What I didn’t know is that you already had men inside. You knew my name the second it was floated. You knew my address. You knew when my husband leaves for work. You knew the thin gold chain I never take off.
You let them send me in.
You watched me walk into your world thinking I was the hunter.
I’m not.
Every report I give feeds them exactly what you want them to hear. Every night I smile at the man who loves me, I feel the cage you’ve already built around both of us.
I’m still playing the part. Still pretending the walls aren’t closing in.
But you already decided I can’t walk away.
And already yours in ways I haven’t said out loud yet.
Your move.
Looking for a chat.
Knowing something personal about me can feel powerful. It can also feel really embarrassing. I am submissive.
I get this feeling when another person especially a stranger knows what I am like under my clothes. Or if I am hairy down there. Things like that. It is the idea that someone else holds that kind of knowledge about my body. It makes me feel small and seen at the same time.
I like when someone asks me quiet questions about it. Or makes me describe things I usually keep private. The embarrassment is part of what draws me in.
If that sounds interesting to you message me. You can tell me what you would want to know.
Looking for a chat.
Knowing something personal about me can feel powerful. It can also feel really embarrassing. I am submissive.
I get this feeling when another person especially a stranger knows what I am like under my clothes. Or if I am hairy down there. Things like that. It is the idea that someone else holds that kind of knowledge about my body. It makes me feel small and seen at the same time.
I like when someone asks me quiet questions about it. Or makes me describe things I usually keep private. The embarrassment is part of what draws me in.
If that sounds interesting to you message me. You can tell me what you would want to know.
Looking for a chat.
Knowing something personal about me can feel powerful. It can also feel really embarrassing. I am submissive.
I get this feeling when another person especially a stranger knows what I am like under my clothes. Or if I am hairy down there. Things like that. It is the idea that someone else holds that kind of knowledge about my body. It makes me feel small and seen at the same time.
I like when someone asks me quiet questions about it. Or makes me describe things I usually keep private. The embarrassment is part of what draws me in.
If that sounds interesting to you message me. You can tell me what you would want to know.
Chat preferred.
Everyone knew. During my MBA I was with my senior. Dating is too clean a word for what it was. I was already engaged to the man who is now my husband, the wedding fixed, the families happy, the future decided. But campus for a year and a half was in a different city. Different rules. Different version of me.
Sex. Yes. That is the accurate word. I was having sex with him and the whole batch knew. The girls in my wing would go quiet when I walked in late. The boys would smirk when they saw the marks he left on my neck and collarbones, the ones I tried and failed to hide under kurtis and scarves. He used to take me to the men’s hostel after classes, past the security who looked the other way, up the stairs that smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap deodorant, into a room that was never fully private but private enough. He would lock the door, push me against it, and remind me that outside this building I was someone’s fiancée while inside it I belonged to him.
I still remember the way my engagement ring felt on my finger when his mouth was between my legs. The way I would sit through lectures the next morning, sore and marked, while the senior boys glanced at me like they had already seen everything. Everyone knew. No one said it out loud. That silence was part of the heat. Now I am married. The campus is years behind me. But some nights the memory of those hostel stairs still tightens something low in my stomach, and I wonder what it would feel like to talk about it with someone who understands exactly how wrong and how necessary it felt.
I’m married. My wife is submissive too. We both are. I still feel like the wrong one in the house. I go to work. I pay the bills. I fuck her when she needs it and I come but afterward I feel hollow. The body works. The voice is deep. None of it feels like it belongs to me.
I need a man who can finish what is already falling apart. Emasculate me until the word man sounds wrong in my own head. Make me feminine in the places no one else sees. Fuck the man out of me with your cock and with the way you talk to me. I want to be used like something soft and open. I want your hand on the back of my neck while you push into me and tell me what I am becoming. I want the shame of realizing how easy it is to give up the last of the hardness I still try to hold.
My wife knows I am submissive. She calls me different.
I want the psychological weight of that. The slow understanding that I was never meant to lead. That every time I try to stand tall it feels like a lie. I want you to strip that lie away until the only thing left is the part of me that opens and stays open. Married life stays on the outside.
Underneath I want to belong to a man who knows how to break the rest of me down and keep what is left. Tell me how you would start. Tell me how dirty you would make it.
Chat preferred. Looking forward to discussing it.
Everyone knew. During my MBA I was with my senior. Dating is too clean a word for what it was. I was already engaged to the man who is now my husband, the wedding fixed, the families happy, the future decided. But campus for a year and a half was in a different city. Different rules. Different version of me.
Sex. Yes. That is the accurate word. I was having sex with him and the whole batch knew. The girls in my wing would go quiet when I walked in late. The boys would smirk when they saw the marks he left on my neck and collarbones, the ones I tried and failed to hide under kurtis and scarves. He used to take me to the men’s hostel after classes, past the security who looked the other way, up the stairs that smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap deodorant, into a room that was never fully private but private enough. He would lock the door, push me against it, and remind me that outside this building I was someone’s fiancée while inside it I belonged to him.
I still remember the way my engagement ring felt on my finger when his mouth was between my legs. The way I would sit through lectures the next morning, sore and marked, while the senior boys glanced at me like they had already seen everything. Everyone knew. No one said it out loud. That silence was part of the heat. Now I am married. The campus is years behind me. But some nights the memory of those hostel stairs still tightens something low in my stomach, and I wonder what it would feel like to talk about it with someone who understands exactly how wrong and how necessary it felt.
Quick chats preferred over a detailed roleplay. Looking for someone to play the bad influence best friend or the man.
Life is simple. At times. But it can get complicated fast when the right person knows exactly which buttons to push.
I am married. My best friend is dating. She knows I am unhappy, mainly because of my sex life. She knows what I used to be before the ring and the quiet nights and the polite excuses. She has always known. So she plans it.
It was supposed to be a girls night. Just us, wine, complaining about men, the usual. But when I arrived she was already talking to him. Laughing in that low way she only uses when she is working something. She introduced us like it was nothing. He stayed. The night stretched. The wine kept coming. Her eyes kept finding mine across the table every time he said something that made heat crawl under my skin.
By the time the evening settled she was leaning in close, voice soft and certain, telling me I deserved to feel wanted again. That it was just one night. That she had already booked the hotel. That he was waiting downstairs. That she would cover for me. That no one would ever know unless I wanted them to.
She knows how I used to get wet from the risk itself. From being looked at like that. From the moment right before I say yes. She is using every piece of that knowledge now, patient and ruthless, while I sit there trying to remember why I am supposed to refuse.
I am still married. Still wearing the ring. Still telling myself this is not who I am anymore. But she has already made the decision for me in her head, and the only thing left is whether I walk out with him or stay and watch her smile like she already knows the answer.
Yes, I still call you my ex. Even though you never once called me your girlfriend. Never promised we were exclusive. To everyone else it looked like nothing real. But to me you were my entire world. My friends hated it. My roommate begged me to leave. They all saw the truth I refused to admit. I gave up every piece of my self respect for you. I did whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. Things I had never done for anyone else. Things that still make me wet when I remember them alone at night.
You owned me completely. That dark, aching hold you had on my mind and body never faded. Even when you kept seeing other women. Even when it tore me apart inside, I stayed quiet. I was terrified of losing you.
Then you crossed the final line. You fucked her. That was the night everything shattered.
I moved to a new city to escape you. It took years before I could breathe without thinking of you. I met a good man. A kind man. He tells me he loves me every day. He treats me like a queen. I should be happy. I should be safe.
But the moment I saw you again, everything changed. One look across that crowded restaurant and my body remembered. My mind went blank. When you texted me to follow you, I made an excuse to my boyfriend and I obeyed. Just like I always did.
I’m ashamed. I hate how much I need this. I hate how wet I get thinking about the way you used me. How you knew exactly how to push me past every limit until I was begging.
I want you to write me as that ex. The one who still owns me. The one who can make me risk everything with a single command. Make me feel small and filthy and desperately wanted again. Pull me back into that toxic heat where I lose myself completely.
Be detailed. Be cruel in the way that makes me throb. Show me how you still control this good girl who should know better. Make it psychological. Make it raw. Make me feel why I can never truly escape you.
We are both Indian my husband and I. He planned this meeting with so much excitement thinking it would stay safe and public like before. Just his shy wife teasing an older white man for his fantasy. He helped me get ready this morning smiling proudly completely unaware that you changed everything. He has no idea Im sitting here in the hotel parking lot instead my stomach twisting with guilt and something much darker. You told me things last time. Private things. You made me promise to obey. And even though I felt so ashamed I did them.
I followed your instructions in secret touching myself the way you wanted practicing how to speak to you wearing the plug you told me to buy and keep inside for hours while my husband was in the next room. I felt so full and degraded every time I moved knowing I was preparing my body for you behind his back. A proper Indian wife shouldnt do any of this but I couldnt stop.
Now my modest dress hides everything. No one would guess what Ive done for you. How wet and nervous I am. How my mind keeps replaying your voice telling me what a good girl I could be for a real man. I feel so weak. So unfaithful.
The humiliation burns but it also makes me ache in ways my husband has never made me feel. This was only supposed to be innocent flirting. But Im here alone ready to step into your room and let you take control. I dont know how far youll push me tonight. I dont know if Ill be able to look my husband in the eyes afterward.
Im too shy to beg but please message me the room number. Tell this nervous cheating Indian wife exactly what you want from her. Use me however you like. Im scared guilty and completely yours right now.
Come claim whats no longer his.
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