u/Think-Measurement174

For the last five or six days, I’ve been having these wild fantasies about my best friend, F, who is already married. Somehow, those thoughts have become so intense that I started writing stories about the two of us on RedQuill—and honestly, I’m really enjoying reading them. There’s something incredibly tempting and exciting about letting my imagination run wild, exploring the chemistry, desire, and forbidden tension between us.

For the last five or six days, I’ve been having these wild fantasies about my best friend, F, who is already married. Somehow, those thoughts have become so intense that I started writing stories about the two of us on RedQuill—and honestly, I’m really enjoying reading them. There’s something incredibly tempting and exciting about letting my imagination run wild, exploring the chemistry, desire, and forbidden tension between us.

For the last five or six days, I’ve been having these wild fantasies about my best friend, F, who is already married. Somehow, those thoughts have become so intense that I started writing stories about the two of us on RedQuill—and honestly, I’m really enjoying reading them. There’s something incredibly tempting and exciting about letting my imagination run wild, exploring the chemistry, desire, and forbidden tension between us.

Chapter 3: First Time, First Frame

The file opened like a wound I hadn't known I was carrying.

Timestamp: two summers ago. Before her promotion, before she moved out for grad school, back when we still shared the flat on Third Road. I'd been seventeen then, finishing my final year, eating her leftover paneer and borrowing her laptop without apology.

On screen, Priya looked younger. There was a roundness to her face that life had since carved away. Same floral duvet from Diwali, but the room was different — a hostel bed, posters on the wall I vaguely recognized, the pink towel she'd guarded since school.

She sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing the camera. Rohan's voice came from somewhere left of the frame. "Tell me what you're nervous about."

She laughed — that throaty family-dinner laugh, the one for questions about her love life. "This is weird. You're just going to watch me—"

"That's the point." Gentle. "I want to remember this."

"Remember what? Me looking like a mess?"

"You being brave."

Those words lingered in the quiet. Her smile softened. She reached for the top button of her pale yellow shirt — a thing my mother had picked out at a wedding market — and undid it slowly.

Her hands shook at the second button.

My bedroom was dark except for the screen's glow. Somewhere down the hallway, Priya slept, breathing slow and spent from the lazy work of her own fingers. Smart, careless girl. She'd left the door open for me.

The third button parted. A sliver of skin at her sternum, then black lace — plain, practical, nothing like the mesh thing from the selfie. She looked at the lens and, for one unguarded moment, through it.

"I feel like you can see everything."

"I can. That's the point."

She shrugged the shirt off her shoulders and let it fall behind her. The camera held her: black lace against warm brown skin, the soft weight of her breasts pressing at the fabric's edges. She sat up straighter, chin lifting.

"Good," he said, and the word landed like a touch. "Now the bra."

Her hands went back. Fumbled. A nervous laugh: "The clasp—"

"Let me."

The bed dipped as he entered the frame. Broad shoulders, grey t-shirt, tanned forearms — I'd seen him at a dozen family dinners, handsome and polite, the kind who held doors and remembered everyone's names. But his hands trembled too.

The hook gave. The straps loosened.

He didn't pull the bra away. Let it hang there, catching against the weight of her breasts, a held breath made of lace. Priya's arms came up to cover her chest.

"Don't." His hand found her wrist, drew it down. "Please. Let me look at you."

The bra fell into her lap.

In the other photos, her breasts seemed curated. Here they were simply hers — soft, heavy, dark nipples already tight. She shifted, and they swayed with her breathing. Her spine curved, that delicate string of knobs I now knew by heart.

"Lie back," Rohan said.

She sank into the pillows, black hair fanning across the duvet. The camera sat at the foot of the bed, unwavering, as he leaned over her.

He kissed her mouth first. Deeply. Then pulled back, thumb tracing her sternum, down between her breasts. She shivered — a ripple that ran visibly across her stomach, muscles clenching.

"Rohan—"

"Shh." His mouth found her neck, and she arched into him. "I've been wanting this since the first time I saw you."

At nineteen, she'd been shy and laughing at a gate. Watching from my bedroom, my throat dry, I pushed my sweats down.

He kissed down her throat. Her collarbone. The shallow valley between her breasts. When he took one nipple into his mouth, Priya broke open — a sound escaped her like a cry out of a cage. Her spine bowed. Her fingers locked into his hair with fierce ownership.

"That's it," he murmured against her skin. "That's my girl."

His tongue circled, wet and precise, and she writhed beneath him. Her legs began a restless rhythm — pressing together, opening, pressing together. The same rhythm of wanting and shame I knew from my own body, my own dark.

Shame should have made me stop. But my fist was wrapped around my cock now, and the video played on, and shame was just wallpaper.

He kissed down her ribs. Her belly, soft and vulnerable. When his mouth dipped into her navel, she giggled — surprised. "That's—ticklish—"

"Noted."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings. Grey. Cotton. Unremarkable. He paused. "Okay?"

"Yes."

He drew them down her hips, and the revelation unfurled slowly — the dark patch of hair at the juncture of her thighs, the glistening proof of how much she wanted him. No panties underneath. She'd gone without them on purpose.

Rohan dragged in a breath. "God, Priya."

"Don't just—do something."

He laughed, delighted. Spread her thighs with both hands, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and lowered his head between them.

The first stroke of his tongue made her gasp — sharp and bright, a live wire that jumped years and buried itself in my lap. Her hips lifted off the bed. His forearm pinned her down as his jaw worked in slow, lazy passes. Her legs began to shake.

Some part of me was making sounds, but no words formed. Just her name, Priya, Priya — a silent litany in time with his mouth.

She clapped a hand over her own. Rohan reached up, pulled it away, pressed it to the duvet.

"Don't hide. I want to hear you."

She whimpered — naked, shameless. "You're so—oh god, right there—don't stop—"

I didn't stop either. My hand moved in the same rhythm as his tongue, the dark room filling with slick sounds — mine, hers, ours.

"I'm going to—Rohan, I'm—"

He lapped faster, hungrier. Her hips rolled, grinding against his mouth, and her head thrashed on the pillow. A breath caught, held, broke — and she came with a cry that was almost a sob, her body seizing beneath him, his name torn out of her in jagged syllables.

He worked her through it, slow licks, until her spine settled back into the bed.

I had to stop myself. My fist was at the edge, hips bucking into my own grip, and I held there — trembling, burning — because I needed to see the rest.

Rohan kissed his way up her body. Over her ribs. Between her breasts. Her throat. She was spent, smiling, a sheen of sweat across her skin.

"More?" he asked.

Her eyes flew open. "You want—already?"

"God, yes."

He reached off-camera. A foil wrapper crinkled in the quiet. Priya watched him, fascination replacing nerves. He rolled the condom on with practiced ease, but when he settled over her, ready, his hands shook.

"First time," he said. "Are you still—"

"You keep asking." Her fingertips traced his jaw. "Yes. I'm sure. I want you. I want this."

The camera saw everything. His weight settling over her. Her legs wrapping around his waist. The slow, slick pressure as he pushed inside, and the sound she made — gasp and sigh fused together, her pelvis lifting to meet him.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so tight. So warm."

A thin laugh. "Give me a second."

He held still, arms locked beside her head. She arched her back, adjusting, accepting. Then her body relaxed, melting into the duvet, and she nodded.

He drew back. She made an impatient sound. When he thrust again, her head pressed into the pillow, mouth falling open.

"Like that," she breathed. "Yes. Like that."

He found a rhythm — careful, then weighted. I was stroking again, barely aware of my own body, my eyes fixed on her face as pleasure took it apart. She looked older suddenly, or ageless, a woman being unmade by a man who knew every stitch of her.

"You feel incredible," he said, the words strained. "Wet. Perfect."

"Don't talk—oh god—don't stop talking—"

He laughed low, then drove deeper. Her hips rose to meet him, steel and water, the bed's creaks matching my fist's rhythm — his body, her voice, my hand, all one sound in the dark.

"Priya." Her name like an anchor. "Look at me."

She opened her eyes.

"Come with me."

She didn't need telling. Her nails marked his shoulders, a sound climbed out of her — ragged and bare — as her body tightened around him. He followed with a groan, shuddering, collapsing beside her.

The video kept rolling. Phone propped, still recording, it captured the afterimages: Rohan stroking her hair, murmuring praise, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. She laughed — dopey, satisfied. "That's seriously the best thing I've ever felt."

"First time of many."

"Promise?"

He kissed her forehead. "For you? I'd promise anything."

My release came without warning, spilling hot across my knuckles, her voice and his promise braided together in the dark. The shock of it felt like a punch — a gift and a wound delivered simultaneously.

The screen went black when the phone's battery died.

I sat in the silence, hands shaking. The folder held forty-two more videos. A museum of her intimacy, curated by the universe's cruelest joke.

Forty-two.

Not tonight. I couldn't open another one tonight.

But I copied the folder to my desktop anyway.

Then I lay back on my bed — sticky, sick, aching — and listened to the wall. Her breathing had deepened into sleep, soft as a child's. Ten feet away.

The same air.

My phone buzzed. A notification from the drive's backup sync I'd set up in my panic: 43 files successfully backed up to cloud.

I stared at the words until the screen dimmed.

Tomorrow, I'd tell myself I was done. I'd shower. I'd pretend.

But tonight — with her sleeping like that, so close, so unaware — I pulled the pillow over my face and breathed in the smell of my own hands.

Chapter 2: Voices Through the Wall

The doorknob stopped turning.

My lungs had forgotten their job. The screen blazed with her inbox—subject lines, sender names, a five-year archive of my sister’s life rendered in twelve-point Helvetica—and somewhere in the hallway, Priya’s hand rested on the knob of my bedroom door.

“Ishaan? You decent?”

Her voice. The same voice that had whimpered through my speakers twenty minutes ago.

“Yeah—one sec—” The words scraped out of me like gravel. I slapped the laptop lid down, yanked the hard drive’s USB cable free, and shoved both under a pile of laundry with hands that didn’t feel like mine anymore.

The door opened.

She stood there in travel-worn jeans and a crumpled kurta, her long black hair escaping a hurried bun. Dark circles under her eyes. The same eyes I’d just watched flutter closed in pleasure.

“God, I’m wrecked,” she said, leaning against my doorframe. “Six hours at the airport for nothing. Rohan’s still stuck there—his flight got pushed to tomorrow.” She yawned, and the movement pulled the kurta tight across her chest. Soft. Full. I knew the exact weight of those breasts now, the way they spilled when a bra unhooked. “What’ve you been doing? You look weird.”

“Just gaming. Lost track of time.”

“Mm.” She didn’t care. She was already turning away. “I’m gonna shower and crash. You want chai or anything?”

“No.”

She paused. Frowned. “You okay?”

I nodded. My face felt like a mask someone else had painted on.

The bathroom door clicked shut. The pipes groaned. Water rushed through the walls.

I sat there in the sudden quiet, my heart still kicking against my ribs, and listened to my sister shower ten feet away. The splashing changed pitch when it hit her body. I knew the geography of that body now—the curve of her hip where Rohan’s thumb had hooked her panties, the dip of her navel where his tongue had lingered. My cock stirred again, insistent and indifferent to my shame.

I reached under the laundry and pulled the laptop back out.

---

The screen glowed to life. Still on her inbox. But my eye caught something else—a folder synced from her phone’s notes app. Journal_2023. Unencrypted. Just sitting there, like a letter left open on a kitchen counter.

I opened June 14th.

Rohan’s been gone three days. Business trip to Mumbai. The apartment feels enormous. I tried reading, tried Netflix, tried calling Ananya, but my brain just keeps circling back to that thing he does with his tongue—

I scrolled faster. My pulse was a drumline.

—I hate how much I miss him. Hate it. Called him at midnight just to hear his voice. He was half-asleep, that gravelly mumble he does, and I swear to god I got wet just listening to him say my name. He asked what I was wearing. I said nothing. (I was wearing his old t-shirt but the lie felt hotter.)

He started talking. Low and slow. Told me what he’d do if he were here—exactly what he’d do. His voice got that edge, you know the one, like every word was a finger tracing down my stomach—

My hand had found its way into my lap again. I didn’t stop it.

—and I just lay there in the dark with the phone pressed to my ear, my other hand under the t-shirt, and I swear I could feel his breath on my neck even though he was six hundred kilometers away. He kept saying my name. Priya. Priya. Like a prayer. And I—

I came so hard I saw stars. Actual stars. Little white flecks behind my eyelids. And then he laughed—that soft, pleased laugh—and said “good girl,” and I wanted to crawl through the phone and devour him.

I closed my eyes. Behind my lids: my sister in the dark, her phone glowing against her cheek, her thighs parting under the weight of a man’s voice. Rohan’s voice, yes—but in my mind, the voice had no face. It could be anyone’s.

It could be mine.

The thought arrived without permission, and it should have horrified me. Instead, it settled somewhere low in my gut, warm and spreading.

I read the entry twice more, each pass slower, committing phrases to memory. That edge, like every word was a finger tracing down my stomach. The specificity of her arousal—auditory, lonely, desperate—felt more intimate than the video. The video was performance, framed for an audience of one. But this was confession. This was the inside of her skull.

The shower cut off.

I minimized the journal and opened another folder. Chats_backup. A WhatsApp export, hundreds of messages with Rohan. I searched for “voice” and found a thread from March.

Rohan: you want me to record something?

Priya: omg yes

Priya: wait no that’s embarrassing

Rohan: too late already recording

[Voice Note: 4:32]

Priya: 🫣

Priya: I’m not listening to that at work

Rohan: listen to it at work. I dare you.

The voice note file was right there. A tiny MP3 icon. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds of Rohan’s voice saying god knows what. My cursor circled it.

From the other end of the apartment, a door opened. Bare feet padded down the hallway. Then Priya’s bedroom door—the room next to mine—closed with a soft click.

I plugged in my headphones.

---

The recording began with static, then breathing. Deep and deliberate, the kind someone does right into the mic to make sure you hear it.

“Hey, baby.”

My jaw tightened.

“Wish you were here right now. Wish I had you on your back, that little cotton thing you wore last night—yeah, I remember. White. Thin. You could see right through it when you walked past the lamp.”

A pause. A wet sound—lips parting, maybe a tongue. I pictured him in a hotel room, phone in one hand, the other already working his belt.

“I’d start with your neck. You know why? Because you make that sound. The little one. Like you’re surprised even though we’ve done this a hundred times.”

I knew the sound. I’d heard it in the video. A soft gasp, almost a hiccup.

“Then I’d go lower. Real slow. The collarbone. The space between your—” his voice dropped to a near-whisper “—your breasts. God, Priya. Your tits. I’d spend an hour just there. You’d be begging by the time I got to your nipples.”

My hand moved inside my sweats. Slowly. The dry friction of palm against shaft, my own breathing gone shallow.

“You’re touching yourself already. I know you are. Don’t stop.”

I didn’t.

“I’d push your thighs apart. Kiss the inside of your knee. Work my way up. You’d be wet by then—you’re always wet by then—and I’d just breathe on you first. Not even touch. Just breathe. Watch you squirm.”

The room felt smaller. Hotter. My fist worked in a rhythm now, slick with precum, the sound of it obscene in the quiet.

“Then my tongue. Flat. Slow. One long—”

A noise cut through my headphones. Not from the recording.

From the wall.

I pulled one earpiece out and froze.

A moan. Soft, muffled by drywall and distance, but unmistakable. Priya’s voice. The same voice I was hearing in my ear, except this one was live, happening right now, ten feet away through a layer of plaster and paint.

“—yeah, just like that—”

Rohan’s voice in my ear. Priya’s voice through the wall. The recording kept playing—his descriptions growing filthier, more specific—but I barely heard it. My whole being had narrowed to the wall beside my bed.

Another moan. Higher this time. A creak of bedsprings.

I pressed my ear flat against the cool plaster and listened to my sister masturbate.

The sound was rhythmic—a soft, wet percussion I couldn’t un-hear. Every few seconds, a breath catching. A whispered word I couldn’t quite make out. The bed creaked in a pattern: two short squeaks, pause, two short squeaks. Her hand working between her legs, maybe, or a toy—did she have toys? The journal hadn’t mentioned any, but there was so much I didn’t know. So much I was only beginning to discover.

“Priya,” the recording breathed in my ear.

“Priya,” I breathed against the wall, soundless, the word just a shape my lips made.

Her moans quickened. The bed creaked faster. Through the wall, I heard her gasp—that exact gasp from the video—and then a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to go on forever.

Silence.

I pulled my hand out of my sweats, wet and shaking. The recording had ended. My headphones hummed with empty static.

The wall was still warm from her body heat.

I didn’t finish myself off. Something in me wanted to hold onto the ache. The incompleteness. As if climax would be a door I couldn’t walk back through.

Instead, I sat against the wall and waited for her breathing to steady on the other side. When it did—slow, deep, the rhythm of sleep—I opened her hard drive again and kept digging.

Somewhere in the backup of her old phone, buried three folders deep, I found a folder labeled with nothing but a heart emoji.

Inside: forty-three files. Videos. All dated. All thumbnail views of skin and bedsheets and the floral duvet from the Diwali family photo.

I clicked the earliest one.

Priya’s face filled the screen—younger, softer, maybe two years ago. She was looking into the lens, smiling that crooked smile I’d seen across dinner tables my whole life. Then the phone tilted down, and I watched my sister take her clothes off for a man who wasn’t in the room.

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

We walked straight to the bedroom. The first thing he did was grab a fresh bedsheet from the closet and spread it over the rumpled one already on the mattress. That simple action made my stomach twist. He was planning to put me through something messy, something that would leave stains.

He pointed at the bed. "On your back." I climbed up and lay down, heart hammering. He grabbed my ankles and yanked me toward the edge until my head hung off the mattress. A pillow went under my neck to adjust the angle. My hands stayed at my sides until he grabbed both wrists and pinned them wide against the bed. His weight settled over me as he bent forward.

His cock, still slick from earlier, pressed against my lips. He pushed in without asking. The first few thrusts stayed shallow, but he quickly changed the angle and drove deeper. My throat tightened around him. He didn't pull back. Saliva flooded my mouth and spilled over my cheeks. He kept thrusting, using the new position to slide further each time. I gagged hard, body jerking, but his hands held my arms flat and his hips kept moving.

After a couple of minutes he finally eased out. I tried to roll onto my stomach, desperate for a break, but he pushed me flat again. His cock dragged across my face, smearing spit over my skin before he shoved back into my mouth. The pace picked up. He fucked my throat in long, steady strokes, sometimes holding deep for several seconds while I struggled for air. Every time I choked he pulled back just enough for a quick breath, then sank in again.

I stayed fully dressed. He was still only half naked, jeans around his thighs. My own cock strained inside my pants, untouched. The realization hit me that I was nothing more than a hole for him right now. He used my mouth like that for over half an hour, switching between deep, relentless thrusts and slower, grinding pushes that forced me to swallow around the head. Thick strands of spit ran down my face and into my hair.

When he finally stopped, he let go of my wrists and stepped back. I lay there panting, face covered in spit, throat sore and swollen. He grabbed my shoulders and flipped me onto my stomach in one rough motion. My face pressed into the fresh sheet as he climbed over me. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pants and yanked them down just enough to bare my ass. Both hands spread my cheeks wide. The head of his cock nudged against my hole. He pressed forward slowly at first, testing the resistance, then added more pressure. The tight ring refused to give. Pain flared sharp and sudden as he tried again, pushing the tip harder against the clenched muscle. I tensed up hard, gasping and pulling away instinctively. He tried once more, the blunt head straining but unable to breach even an inch. The pressure made me flinch and twist under him. He pushed twice more with steady force before giving up with a low grunt and turning my head back toward his cock.

He wiped his cock on my cheek one last time and pulled his jeans up. The disappointment hit me right then, even through the haze of nerves and arousal. I had wanted him to take my virginity that night, to keep me there for days if needed, stretching me open until I could take every inch. But he didn't. He let me up without another word. I pulled my pants back into place while he watched from the edge of the bed. My throat still ached, my face sticky with spit and precum.

Finally, he kindly let me use the bathroom. I went in, freshened up, and took some time to myself. When I came back out, we started talking. He began asking me more about myself—where I was going, what I was doing, where I was from, and what I was up to. It wasn't just random small talk; he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me.

He was also really considerate. He offered me something to eat and brought me some cold drinks, making sure I was comfortable. I hadn't expected that kind of hospitality, especially from someone I had only just met and used me.

We ended up spending another hour or two talking and just hanging around. After spending all that time together, I assumed he was going to use me again. But instead, he did something completely different. He dropped me off so I could catch the bus and head toward the place I had originally been going to when I was on the train.

The End

What would you have done differently if you could relive that night? Would you have begged him to stay and try again, or would you have walked away like I did?

We reached the apartment, and the door had one of those number locks I'd never seen before. He punched in the code, both of us walked in, and locked it from behind with a heavy click. That sound made my stomach drop. No way out now.

He pointed at the couch without a word. "Sit." I dropped onto the cushions like he ordered. He walked to the kitchen, poured some water, drank from the glass, then held it out to me. I shook my head. I think that was the only time I said "no" that day.

After that, everything was commands. No questions, no choices.

He stood right in front of me while I sat on the couch. My face was level with his crotch. "Take my pants off," he said. My hands shook as I reached up, unbuttoned his jeans, and tugged them down to his ass. He shoved them the rest of the way off himself. Underneath, his cock strained against the underwear, thick and already hard. I froze when I saw the outline. It looked bigger than mine for sure and somewhat less the size that I used to see in porn.

"Feel it," he ordered. I didn't move. He grabbed my wrist, pressed my palm flat against the bulge, and rubbed it up and down over the fabric. The heat and hardness surprised me. I didn't expect my own body to react, but a strange spark ran through me anyway.

He tilted my chin up with one finger so I had to meet his eyes. "You like that?" I stayed quiet at first. He pressed harder until I whispered, "Yes."

He yanked his underwear down in one motion. His cock sprang free, heavy and veined, six or seven inches of thick meat pointing at my face. I turned my head away on instinct. He chuckled, then forced my chin back so I had to stare at it. He took my hand again, wrapped my fingers around the shaft, and started moving it for me in slow strokes. After a few, he let go. "Keep going," he said.

I stroked him with one hand, feeling the skin slide over the hard length. My palm grew slick from the heat. After a minute or two he pulled my hand away, opened my fingers, and spat a thick glob right into my palm. I made a face and wiped it on the couch cushion. His expression darkened. He grabbed my chin hard and gave me an expression which I'm sure meant he was angry at my action and was furious about it. The fear hit me full force.

He spat into my palm a second time, closed my fingers around it, and guided my hand back to his cock, sliding my spit-slick hand up and down his shaft while he stood over me, watching every move.

He kept my hand moving on his cock for another minute, the spit making every stroke slick and noisy.

He made me stand up by placing his hands under my armpits, pulled me towards him and literally pushed me down by pushing my shoulders and literally made me sit on my knees. And at that moment I knew what was going to happen because I had watched this in porn. Then he literally ordered me to suck his dick, which I was okay with... I don't know why... but still I hesitated. But he literally placed his hands behind my head to push in... but before that itself I took his tip inside.

And for the first and last time, to be honest... I thought it would taste bad... but oh boy... it was okay. The tip was soft, like sooo soft. That he didn't have to do anything to me for me to suck his tip... I sucked it without him giving me instructions for the first 2-3 minutes. But after some time... I felt his hands behind my head... his palm was covering my whole head from behind... and he started slightly pushing it. I don't know why... he was not letting me wrap his cock with my hands while I was sucking him. And slowly I started to suck him... and there I knew my limit.

I think I was only able to take 5 inches of him in my mouth. This went for 4-5 minutes I guess and that's when he did the unexpected... when I took all 5 inches... he was not letting me out... he held my head there and he literally tried to push me to take the rest of his cock. I literally nearly choked. He pulled out just long enough for me to gasp for air, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening cock. Then he pushed back in, harder, using my mouth like a hole. My jaw ached. Tears streaked my face, but the fear mixed with something hotter now, my own cock twitching in my pants even as he used me.

I let him fuck my throat until my nose pressed against his pubic hair and I couldn't breathe. He held me down for several long seconds before letting me up, only to push me back in again.

Thick saliva dripped from my lips as he forced me to swallow it all. My own saliva coated his cock from the sucking, and he made sure I swallowed every bit. From that point on he was the one controlling the pace completely. Before I realized it, he had pushed me to take his full seven inches inside my mouth. Tears were coming out of my eyes. After some time one hand became two, his two hands now controlling the pace of the sucking. And finally after 10-15 minutes he put a stop to it and gave me a little tap to my face like a small slap, which was not painful.

After that tap, he pulled me up by the shoulders and guided me further into the apartment.

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

We reached the apartment, and the door had one of those number locks I'd never seen before. He punched in the code, both of us walked in, and locked it from behind with a heavy click. That sound made my stomach drop. No way out now.

He pointed at the couch without a word. "Sit." I dropped onto the cushions like he ordered. He walked to the kitchen, poured some water, drank from the glass, then held it out to me. I shook my head. I think that was the only time I said "no" that day.

After that, everything was commands. No questions, no choices.

He stood right in front of me while I sat on the couch. My face was level with his crotch. "Take my pants off," he said. My hands shook as I reached up, unbuttoned his jeans, and tugged them down to his ass. He shoved them the rest of the way off himself. Underneath, his cock strained against the underwear, thick and already hard. I froze when I saw the outline. It looked bigger than mine for sure and somewhat less the size that I used to see in porn.

"Feel it," he ordered. I didn't move. He grabbed my wrist, pressed my palm flat against the bulge, and rubbed it up and down over the fabric. The heat and hardness surprised me. I didn't expect my own body to react, but a strange spark ran through me anyway.

He tilted my chin up with one finger so I had to meet his eyes. "You like that?" I stayed quiet at first. He pressed harder until I whispered, "Yes."

He yanked his underwear down in one motion. His cock sprang free, heavy and veined, six or seven inches of thick meat pointing at my face. I turned my head away on instinct. He chuckled, then forced my chin back so I had to stare at it. He took my hand again, wrapped my fingers around the shaft, and started moving it for me in slow strokes. After a few, he let go. "Keep going," he said.

I stroked him with one hand, feeling the skin slide over the hard length. My palm grew slick from the heat. After a minute or two he pulled my hand away, opened my fingers, and spat a thick glob right into my palm. I made a face and wiped it on the couch cushion. His expression darkened. He grabbed my chin hard and gave me an expression which I'm sure meant he was angry at my action and was furious about it. The fear hit me full force.

He spat into my palm a second time, closed my fingers around it, and guided my hand back to his cock, sliding my spit-slick hand up and down his shaft while he stood over me, watching every move.

He kept my hand moving on his cock for another minute, the spit making every stroke slick and noisy.

He made me stand up by placing his hands under my armpits, pulled me towards him and literally pushed me down by pushing my shoulders and literally made me sit on my knees. And at that moment I knew what was going to happen because I had watched this in porn. Then he literally ordered me to suck his dick, which I was okay with... I don't know why... but still I hesitated. But he literally placed his hands behind my head to push in... but before that itself I took his tip inside.

And for the first and last time, to be honest... I thought it would taste bad... but oh boy... it was okay. The tip was soft, like sooo soft. That he didn't have to do anything to me for me to suck his tip... I sucked it without him giving me instructions for the first 2-3 minutes. But after some time... I felt his hands behind my head... his palm was covering my whole head from behind... and he started slightly pushing it. I don't know why... he was not letting me wrap his cock with my hands while I was sucking him. And slowly I started to suck him... and there I knew my limit.

I think I was only able to take 5 inches of him in my mouth. This went for 4-5 minutes I guess and that's when he did the unexpected... when I took all 5 inches... he was not letting me out... he held my head there and he literally tried to push me to take the rest of his cock. I literally nearly choked. He pulled out just long enough for me to gasp for air, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening cock. Then he pushed back in, harder, using my mouth like a hole. My jaw ached. Tears streaked my face, but the fear mixed with something hotter now, my own cock twitching in my pants even as he used me.

I let him fuck my throat until my nose pressed against his pubic hair and I couldn't breathe. He held me down for several long seconds before letting me up, only to push me back in again.

Thick saliva dripped from my lips as he forced me to swallow it all. My own saliva coated his cock from the sucking, and he made sure I swallowed every bit. From that point on he was the one controlling the pace completely. Before I realized it, he had pushed me to take his full seven inches inside my mouth. Tears were coming out of my eyes. After some time one hand became two, his two hands now controlling the pace of the sucking. And finally after 10-15 minutes he put a stop to it and gave me a little tap to my face like a small slap, which was not painful.

After that tap, he pulled me up by the shoulders and guided me further into the apartment.

Back when I was 21, a train encounter with an older guy in his 40s left me feeling completely taken over. It led to more at his place, and now at 27, I'm craving that exact feeling again: total control from a dominant older man.

How do others in this community find or recreate those intense, helpless encounters with guys 40+? Any tips on meeting the right type who'll take charge like that, maybe even building into more as the nights go on? Looking forward to hearing experiences or advice.

Back when I was 21, a train encounter with an older guy in his 40s left me feeling completely taken over. It led to more at his place, and now at 27, I'm craving that exact feeling again: total control from a dominant older man.

How do others in this community find or recreate those intense, helpless encounters with guys 40+? Any tips on meeting the right type who'll take charge like that, maybe even building into more as the nights go on? Looking forward to hearing experiences or advice.

Back when I was 21, a train encounter with an older guy in his 40s left me feeling completely taken over. It led to more at his place, and now at 27, I'm craving that exact feeling again: total control from a dominant older man. How do others in this community find or recreate those intense, helpless encounters with guys 40+? Any tips on meeting the right type who'll take charge like that, maybe even building into more as the nights go on? Looking forward to hearing experiences or advice.

Thanks for all the responses to my last post. A lot of you asked what happened after that first touch on the train, and honestly, looking back, I think that was the moment I stopped belonging to myself and started belonging to him.

So that brushing thing and all was happening, for 5–10 minutes. And he looked at me and realised that I'm enjoying it. But I was really scared and stuck and didn't know what to do.

And when his stop arrived... he literally placed his hands on my back. Like, not on my ass... above it. And gave me a little push. Which means he wanted me to get off with him there... even though my station was the next one. I was nervous and liked what he did to me at the same time.

I said no the first time. Then I got off with him anyway. I have no idea why I did that.

He was leading the way, and until that we hadn't talked a single word. My heart was beating like hell. So I followed him to the parking lot where his car was parked. And shameless me sat on the front seat.

After both of us were inside the car, he started the engine. The car idled. His hand stayed on the gearshift. And before he started driving, he talked to me for the first time, and it was a question: "Did you like what I did to you?"

I had no answer, which he took as yes, I guess. He gave me a smirk. He put the car in gear and started driving.

First he didn't do anything. After driving for 2–3 minutes... I felt it. After some time, his palms were on my thighs, and gradually it started to move towards my hard dick over my pants, and he started to rub them. My heart was beating so fast that I couldn't sense anything around me. For some reason I enjoyed it, but I was also nervous at the same time.

Somewhere in there, he unzipped me. His hand was inside my pants, rubbing my dick over my underwear. And he started to squeeze them too, all this while he was driving the car with one hand. My mouth said nothing. My hips said everything. The boy in me was enjoying it for some reason.

And after some time while driving he called his friend, and he was saying that he needed an apartment for tonight. And that's when I knew that this was only the start of my new life.

After some more rubbing and squeezing, we finally reached the apartment. He was not doing anything while we stepped out of the car until we reached the apartment room. I was expecting him to do something in the lift. But he didn't do anything.

And my mind said: He was saving it all for the apartment.

Back when I was just 21, there’s this memory that sticks with me..!!!

one evening on the train ride home, It was a packed compartment during rush hour. No seats left—just bodies wedged together. An older guy—maybe mid-40s—was standing right beside me. Then I felt it: his hand brushing my back as people shifted around us from side to side. At first? Just accidental contact—the kind that happens all day long on crowded trains. But then… he did it again.And again. Deliberately now a slow slide of his palm over my pants, and I felt it, his hands over my half erected dick. His touch wasn’t forceful, but it was persistent enough to make my heart jump slightly in my chest. I didn’t stop him. Didn’t say anything either way. I just stood there like a loser who’d lost all sense of how to respond or react, letting him do whatever he wanted.

The rest is history.

Now tell me:

If you had been that 40-year-old guy, standing next to me during peak hour inside a train compartment, what would you have done?

Back when I was just 21, there’s this memory that sticks with me..!!!

one evening on the train ride home, It was a packed compartment during rush hour. No seats left—just bodies wedged together. An older guy—maybe mid-40s—was standing right beside me. Then I felt it: his hand brushing my back as people shifted around us from side to side. At first? Just accidental contact—the kind that happens all day long on crowded trains. But then… he did it again.

And again. Deliberately now a slow slide of his palm over my pants, and I felt it, his hands over my half erected dick. His touch wasn’t forceful, but it was persistent enough to make my heart jump slightly in my chest. I didn’t stop him. Didn’t say anything either way. I just stood there like a loser who’d lost all sense of how to respond or react, letting him do whatever he wanted.

The rest is history.

Now tell me:

If you had been that 40-year-old guy, standing next to me during peak hour inside a train compartment, what would you have done?