r/DesiSexConfession

Since my last post received so many likes and replies, I thought I would write about another memorable experience from my life. If you have not read it, I advise you to go back to my profile and read it.

I'd like to clarify a few things based on the feedback I received on my last post.

The purpose of sharing these stories is not your usual social media vanity project. I'm simply trying to create a public record of my past experiences, reconstructed from memory as accurately and honestly as possible. I do not have infinite "content" to share so there won't be one post a day. I'm not chasing likes, subscribers, followers, brand deals, or validation from strangers on the internet.

You're free to believe my stories exactly as I've written them, question parts of them, or dismiss them entirely. That choice is yours.

I place a great deal of importance on privacy and consent. Because of that, please don't repeatedly DM me asking for names, identities, contact details, proof or any information that could compromise someone else's privacy. I won't be sharing any of it.

I am not writing explicit stories so that you can have a quick release. However, I have not skipped on the explicit details whenever I felt it was needed. That said, if any of these stories resonate with your own experiences, or if you have questions that might genuinely help you navigate your own life, feel free to message me respectfully. I'll do my best to reply when I can. This is going to be a long one. If you find your attention wavering already, feel free to skip it.

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This happened back in 2018, at the height of my slutty phase in Bombay. I was in my early 30s and single. A few weeks earlier, I had matched with a cute and intelligent woman on Tinder, and things were progressing well. We hadn't hooked up yet; I was taking things at her pace. We had, however, formed a genuine connection and spent a lot of time talking about our lives. She was a lawyer around my age and had recently gone through a divorce.

After a couple of months, I had somehow become her go-to person for all the slutty questions a woman might have. One day, she told me she was organising a bachelorette party for her closest friend and asked whether I knew any male strippers. I obviously did not. I don't know any strippers in Bombay, let alone male ones.

Half-jokingly, I suggested that if her friend wanted a stripper, I could do it myself.

To my surprise, she was delighted and immediately agreed.

Once the gig was secured, reality began to sink in. I had absolutely no dancing skills, and nobody was ever going to mistake me for a gym-bro. But there was no way I was passing up the opportunity to spend an evening in a room full of flirty, potentially horny women.

I accepted the challenge.

Over the next month, I tried to build some muscle and reduce my beer belly. I spent hours researching male stripper routines online. You would be surprised by how few resources exist for men compared to women. Magic Mike dance moves seemed to be the only readily available reference material.

Anyone who knows me personally knows how strict I am about consent and privacy. I asked my friend to clarify the rules of the evening with the bride-to-be.

She came back and said, "Everything goes."

I wasn't entirely convinced, so I created my own set of levels and asked her to run them past the bride.

My proposed levels were:

Level 0 – Innocent sexy dancing, no touching.

Level 1 – The bride can touch me in non-private areas while I dance.

Level 2 – The bride and I can get handsy while I dance.

Level 3 – I will take my cock out, use whipped cream, and she can suck on it.

Level 4 – Her friends can join in.

Level 5 – No holds barred. Full-on orgy.

My friend returned and reiterated that they had decided on "no limits."

Looking back, you can imagine the sort of thrill that gave me at the time.

On the night of the event, the girls went out for drinks beforehand, and I was told to meet them directly at the venue. There were only 3 girls. The venue was a sea-facing rooftop 2BHK apartment in Versova that one of the girls had volunteered to host.

Up until that point, I had never met or spoken to the bride-to-be. All communication had gone through my friend. She had shown us photographs of each other and obtained basic approval.

The bride-to-be was a goddess in the truest sense.

A proper Punjaban.

Milky-white skin, a curvy statuesque figure, waist-length wavy hair, a bright smile, and a prominent mole on her face. She wasn't particularly tall. She wore a simple kurti for the occasion, and her hands were decorated with henna.

When I finally arrived at the apartment, my heart sank.

My friend had broken my one rule: no other men allowed.

Two other guys were already there, apparently invited by the hostess.

I was devastated.

My month-long dedication suddenly felt pointless.

To make matters worse, the bride-to-be seemed to avoid my gaze entirely and busied herself in the kitchen preparing snacks.

I retreated to the balcony with a drink in hand, trying to hide my disappointment.

A couple of hours later, the atmosphere had settled into what felt like a completely ordinary house party—music, drinks, conversation, and nothing more.

The two guys kept giving me judgemental looks. Clearly, they knew what my original purpose was.

As it turned out, both of them were trying to sleep with the hostess and were quietly competing to see who would end up spending the night in her room.

The hostess herself was stunning. A fit Tamilian dancer with dark skin and wild curly hair.

After what felt like an eternity, the party finally began winding down. One of the men left. The other disappeared into a bedroom with the hostess.

I found myself alone on the balcony with a drink and the remaining two women.

What happened next unfolded very quickly.

I was playing a famous Coke Studio song from that era on my phone. While explaining the lyrics to the bride, I gently parted her hair and placed my hand on the back of her neck, pressing my fingers lightly.

As though someone had pushed a button, she immediately dropped to her knees, hurriedly opened my pants, and took my cock into her mouth.

My friend awkwardly excused herself from the balcony as fast as possible.

The bride sucked my cock as though it were the last one she would ever suck in her life.

I still remember seeing her hair waving back and forth in the darkness.

Within less than a minute, her pants were off and she was lying on the narrow cement floor of the balcony.

All of my self-control disappeared. (Kids, never fuck without a condom if you're not monogamous.)

I dropped on top of her and slid into her freshly waxed, overflowing wet pussy.

It was the kind of flawless, fleshy, soft, full pussy that only a slightly curvy woman would have.

I orgasmed within minutes while trying to fuck her in the cramped missionary position.

At some point, my friend briefly returned, comically extending her arm into the balcony to hand us a packet of condoms while trying not to look in our direction.

By then, it was already over. We had dressed ourselves again, and there seemed little point in using condoms by then.

To make a very long night's story short, the bride and I fucked twelve more times that night.

That is a number I have not surpassed in my life since, and likely never will again as I continue getting older.

The details of what happened next are a little fuzzy now. I mostly remember flashes.

We left the apartment intending to go up to the roof, but ended up fucking on the staircase before we got there.

I bent her over the rooftop railing overlooking the sea and fucked her from behind.

We fucked standing against the metal ladder that led to the large cement water tank.

Eventually, we climbed onto the tank itself and sat there naked.

Take a moment to visualise that scene because it remains one of the most stunning places I have ever had sex.

The building itself was only five storeys tall and overlooked the sea.

Around us stood high-rise towers on all sides, thirty storeys or more.

We were right in the middle of it all.

Far enough away not to be recognised.

Close enough to be seen.

She rode me cowgirl style on top of that cement tank for what felt like an hour.

Eventually, we came down because the surface was incredibly uncomfortable.

We were bruised, scratched, dusty and covered in mosquito bites.

These are the unsexy details that people never imagine unless they actually live through the experience.

When we returned to the apartment, we discovered that our friend had gone to sleep in the spare bedroom and locked the door.

So the bride and I simply lay down on the living-room floor and wrapped a bedsheet around ourselves.

We fucked a few more times before finally falling asleep at dawn, cuddled together.

Around seven in the morning, our friend woke us up. She seemed awkward and distant. I could immediately tell that something was wrong but I didn't pursue it.

The bride and I moved into the comfortable bedroom and fucked one final time that morning.

I still remember the sight and taste of her red, sore pussy in the early morning light.

The aftermath was considerably less dramatic.

The hostess eventually woke up, and we helped clean the apartment. I could see the man was still asleep in her bed.

Feeling invincible after the previous night, I bluntly asked her whether she would like to hook up with me sometime. She looked genuinely shocked and politely declined.

In the following weeks, I learned what had really happened.

My friend had communicated almost none of the details to the other girls.

She had vaguely told them she was bringing along a man she had recently met on Tinder who might be interested in the bride.

They knew nothing about the stripper concept or my fantasies of a potential orgy.

To complicate matters further, my friend began acting strangely around me and refused to hook up with me despite our previous plans.

I later discovered that she had assumed the bride and I would never actually sleep together. Her feelings had been hurt because, in her mind, she had called dibs on me first. The bride assured me that she'd take care of her friend.

The bride and I exchanged numbers and agreed to stay in touch. We also agreed never to meet again for a hookup and preserve the memory of this once in a lifetime experience.

Today, she is happily married and settled in another country.

We still occasionally exchange messages and laugh about the fact that we are now too old to pull off something like that again.

I will attach a partial screenshot of one of our conversations along with this post.

https://ibb.co/DHBnCKg0

This is a story from my life that happened a few years ago - just after the pandemic when things were starting to go back to normal. It is not as outrageous as some of the others I have written about, but it remains one of the most emotionally intense experiences I have ever had. If you enjoy this story, I request you to go back to my profile and read the others.

As always, I am writing this from memory. The dialogue is reconstructed and some small details may be imperfect, but the events themselves are true to the best of my recollection.

At the time I was 35, married, and living in Mumbai. My partner and I practice ethical non-monogamy, something I have mentioned in previous posts. By then I had already been through a decade of dating apps, parties, social events, and what most people would call "unconventional relationships". I thought I understood sex, attraction and dominance reasonably well.

This experience taught me that I did not.

A colleague/former lover had invited me to a weekend retreat near Karjat. I was officially not an employee of that company but she had pulled some strings to get me on the guest list. It was not marketed as anything sexual. The official description talked about psychology, communication, trust, and personal boundaries. The attendees were mostly urban professionals from Mumbai and Pune in their thirties and forties.

I almost did not go. My colleague and I had been platonic for years at that point, so it wasn’t like I was scheming to get into her pants. The whole thing sounded vaguely corporate and slightly pretentious. But I had a free weekend, my partner was busy with work, and I was curious enough to give it a chance.

The retreat was held at a small property surrounded by hills and greenery. There were around twenty participants. Some came alone. Some came with partners. The atmosphere was relaxed and surprisingly normal.

The person leading the retreat was a woman in her mid-forties. She was not the youngest or the most conventionally attractive person there. If I had passed her on the street, I might not have looked twice. She wore a smart corporate suit and long skirts. Her hair was cut short with sharp edges with streaks of white in them. I have a major weakness for long straight hair, so ordinarily she was the opposite of my “type”.

However, within thirty minutes of hearing her speak, she had everyone's attention. I used to be the kind of student in school who would ask the teachers a lot of questions and got accused of being a teacher’s pet. Out of old habits, I responded to all of her audience interactions and soon we were making an inappropriate amount of eye contact. I am sure people noticed the tension that was quietly building up.

She had a calm confidence that is difficult to describe. She never raised her voice. She never demanded attention. Yet whenever she spoke, people listened.

The first day focused on communication exercises. Nothing unusual.

The second day was where things became interesting. I changed my demeanour from honestly curious to quietly flirty. I maintained steady eye contact with her while she spoke, to the extent that I could see her blushing - straightening her clothes (she wore a simple black saree on day 2) and adjusting her hair.

She introduced an experiment.

Participants would pair up and voluntarily hand over small decisions to each other for several hours and we would convene in the evening to discuss results. The idea was to explore trust and control in a safe environment.

The rules were simple.

No major decisions.

No humiliation.

No coercion.

No physical contact without consent.

Anyone could stop the exercise at any time.

It sounded harmless.

She and I naturally gravitated towards each other and I was paired with her to the disappointment of some of the single men present. I could sense that my colleague/friend was disappointed as well that I didn’t pick her. She and I had very little interactions since we had arrived. We were staying in different rooms and if she had any idea of rekindling anything, it wasn’t happening organically.

I remember laughing and telling my hostess that I had spent my entire professional life making leadership decisions and giving instructions to people. The same is largely true for my whoring days as well. Surrendering control for a few hours would probably be good for me.

She smiled.

That smile should have warned me.

The first instruction was trivial. She told me where to sit during lunch. Then she chose what I would eat from the buffet. Then she told me to leave my phone in my room for the afternoon. Nothing dramatic. Nothing unreasonable.

Yet I noticed something strange. I was becoming increasingly aware of her approval. Every time I followed one of her instructions, she would acknowledge it with a small nod or smile. That tiny bit of validation felt disproportionately satisfying.

I started anticipating what she wanted before she asked. I started paying more attention to her than to anyone else in the retreat.

At some point I realised that the exercise had stopped being an intellectual curiosity. It had become personal. The most unsettling part was that she never acted dominant in any obvious way. There were no commands. No threats. No dramatic displays of authority. She simply projected certainty. And certainty is surprisingly attractive when you spend your life carrying responsibility.

For years I had been making decisions. For work. For relationships. For family. For myself. For one weekend somebody else had temporarily removed that burden. I had not realised how much I needed that break.

That evening she and I went for a walk to a viewpoint outside the property to watch the sunset over the hills. The group had scattered around the property in small clusters. Our conversation drifted away from the retreat exercises and became more personal.

Intellect is my easiest kink and normally faced with such a situation, I would try all my moves to try and get her to sleep with me. But in her company, I remember feeling unusually vulnerable and completely unlike how I normally feel when I am trying to fuck a woman. Not because she was asking intrusive questions. Because she was listening carefully enough that I wanted to answer honestly.

That is a dangerous combination.

Throughout the walk, we were becoming more and more touchy and physically close to each other than strictly required. It began innocently - holding hands to help step over large rocks. She commented that I smelt nice and I told her that I wish her hair was longer. She smiled and did not rebut.

As we stopped by a tree to smoke a cigerette, she casually placed her hand on my chest while casually continuing to speak to me normally. I could feel her long nail grazing against my chest. I tried to place my hand on her ass but she brushed it off. Then she placed her hand on my trouser and felt my bulge without breaking the flow of the conversation

I stood frozen. I was already semi hard since I stared the walk. My cock hardened immediately and poked through the fabric of my formal trousers. She unclipped my belt and slipped her hand inside without breaking eye contact.

In that moment, we spoke about marriage.

Ageing.

Regret.

Ambition.

The strange gap between who we are and who we imagined we would become.

All the while, she gripped my cock between her delicate fingers and continued to stroke me up and down. My foreskin stretched out and I winced in pain. She brought her hand out and literally spit into her own palm and put them back in. This time, spreading her saliva over the glans of my penis and stroking the incredibly sensitive erect tip.

She asked me a question I still remember.

"What are you always trying to control?"

I laughed and gave some evasive answer.

She waited.

Eventually I admitted that I was constantly trying to control outcomes. Relationships. Work. Creative projects. My own image. The future. Everything.

She nodded.

Then she whispered something in my ear that stayed with me forever.

"That sounds exhausting."

Not profound. Not complicated. Yet it hit me harder than I expected. Because she was right.

For most of my adult life I had assumed that competence meant carrying everything yourself. That moment forced me to confront the possibility that trust is also a form of strength.

By this point I had pulled her into an awkward standing half-hug. I was going wild with the fragrance of her hair in my nostrils. I tasted the sweat of her neck on my tongue. She did let me finally feel her body as I explored every bit of her figure with my hands and mouth.

By then the sun had set and we were in the middle of a dark deserted unpaved muddy trail. If there were ever a time to turn her around and bend her over a tree and lift her saree to fuck her, this was the moment.

Yet I did nothing.

I just stood there kissing and breathing into her neck and cleavage as she continued to stroke my cock. Just before I was about to climax, she stopped and I was filled with pain in my balls from the sudden withdrawal of stimuli. Yet I didn’t hate her for it. We laughed and straightened ourselves. We took a selfie of the both of us against the fading sunset and walked back to the resort.

That night my colleague/friend visited me in my room. I was kind of expecting it. To cut the story short, as I flipped her over in the bed to fuck her from behind, I opened the selfie on my phone and placed it on the pillow. I told my friend to quieten down her moans for a minute. I continued to stare into the eyes of that average looking woman in the photo as I finally shot an ungodly amount of pent up come into my friend’s pussy.

The retreat ended the next day.

There was no dramatic conclusion. No movie-style ending. No grand declaration. We didn’t exchange numbers. The connection eventually faded, as many connections do. But the experience remained.

People often assume sexual attraction is primarily physical. My life has provided enough evidence to know that is not true. Some of the strongest attractions I have experienced had very little to do with appearance. They came from intelligence. Presence. Confidence. Emotional safety. The feeling that another person sees you more clearly than you see yourself. Looking back now, what fascinates me most is how little actually happened. There was no scandal. No love affair. No secret relationship. No shocking revelation. Just a weekend in the hills outside Mumbai.

And yet I still remember this woman more vividly than many people I dated for months. Sometimes attraction is not about what someone does to you. Sometimes it is about the parts of yourself they quietly reveal.

And years later, that is the part I remember most.

I will share the selfie as proof. Some identifiable features have been changed with AI but the essence of the photo remain exactly as it was taken that evening.

https://ibb.co/TBmXWDb5

This is the third story that I am posting. It is neither as long nor as scandalous as my previous two posts, but it remains one of my favourites. If you enjoy this one, feel free to check out the others later.

I'm new to posting on Reddit and I'm having a bit of trouble figuring out the best subreddits to post confessions like this. If anyone can share this on relevant subreddits or point me to them, that would be awesome, thanks!

I will reiterate my usual disclaimers. I am writing these stories primarily to maintain a written record of my former slutty experiences as my memory gradually fades with time.

This story is from monsoon 2023. I was well into the wrong side of my thirties, at roughly the age when women stopped looking at me as a conventionally attractive “young” man. I was getting fewer and fewer matches on the apps, and after nearly a decade of uninhibited whoring, I had started to feel a sense of self-doubt about my abilities.

One positive aspect of growing older as a man is that, while you become less desirable to the majority, you become exactly the type a small number of women actively seek out. Not many, but a few.

It was in this context that I matched with a woman who was fourteen years younger than me. She had only recently finished college and had just begun her first internship. She was standing at that threshold between youth and adulthood, on the verge of becoming the outspoken, self-sufficient, financially independent woman that Mumbai is famous for.

It probably does not matter, but I should mention that she belonged to a different religion from the one I grew up with. I am a strict atheist and politically liberal, but I would be lying if I said that the idea of fucking someone whom society might disapprove of was not an attractive kink.

It is rare for me to convince a woman to meet on the same day we match, especially after only a couple of hours of chatting. In this case, she agreed.

We met very late on a rainy night, around one in the morning. I parked my car beneath a metro flyover where we had agreed to meet and waited for her. She had been bar-hopping with colleagues, and they were going to drop her nearby. From our phone conversations, I could tell she was slightly tipsy.

That disappointed me a little. I am extremely particular about consent, and earning a woman's complete consent and submission has always been a psychological high for me.

Eventually she arrived, soaked by the rain and wearing a white salwar kameez. The fabric clung to her body. It did not reveal anything it was not supposed to, but I could clearly make out the contours of her hourglass figure. Strands of wet hair hung around her face, dripping rainwater.

She got into the car, and I joked about how risky this whole situation was for her. She laughed and said she was in a good mood and looking forward to meeting me. She had decided to take the chance, although she had shared her live location with her friends.

The plan had been simple: meet at a bar, talk, get to know each other, discuss boundaries and expectations, and only then decide whether we wanted anything physical.

The problem was that it was so late that nearly every bar in Mumbai had already shut down. Ever since the pandemic, the city largely closes by 12:30 a.m., and the promise of the Maximum City feels a little diminished compared to what it once was.

Eventually, we found a place still open: a dingy, slightly shady bar in Andheri that rarely saw the presence of women.

The place was mostly empty apart from a few tables occupied by blue-collar Mumbaikars finishing their drinks after work. Their presence did not inspire confidence. I seated us at a high table as far away from them as possible. Even then, I could feel their eyes following us.

We talked for a while.

The chemistry was intense. The attraction was palpable.

Almost immediately, we slipped into an older man–younger woman dynamic with clear dominant and submissive undertones. She spoke about how liberating it felt to be looked after by an older man and not have to worry about her physical or emotional safety for a few hours.

As we talked, I gently played with her hair and neck, occasionally running my fingers up her back beneath the still-damp fabric of her dress. We shared a couple of wet kisses across the table, fully visible to the men sitting in the distance.

I look younger than my age, and most people would probably have assumed we were just a regular couple. Yet I remained acutely aware of the actual age gap between us and how people might perceive us if they knew the truth.

The thought was thrilling, unsettling, and deeply erotic all at once.

Unfortunately, the bar closed less than an hour after we arrived, and we decided not to have sex that night. The only thing left for me to do was drive her home.

The drive took nearly an hour, and that is really the highlight of this story.

As I drove, I continued playing with her hair and neck with my left hand. She kept sighing and making cooing sounds of contentment. The atmosphere inside the car felt electric.

We both wanted things to become physical, but the restraint itself was intensely enjoyable.

Mumbai's roads were more empty that night than usual, even at two in the morning. Whenever we stopped at a signal, we would lean across the centre console for quick, messy kisses.

Needless to say, I was hard as a rock.

I took her hand and placed it over my pants, encouraging her to stroke me while I drove. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her breasts heaving and falling beneath her low-cut shalwar. Her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lip.

Then I finally did something I had fantasised about for years but had never previously had the opportunity to do. I gathered her wet hair into a ponytail and pulled her head down beneath the steering wheel. She gasped. I instructed her to unclip my belt and take my cock out.

She obeyed like a good girl.

I am generally not someone who enjoys public displays of affection. I like having complete control over my surroundings, and public spaces rarely allow for that. I would therefore be lying if I claimed I was not nervous about being seen.

She took my cock into her mouth, and I rested my hand on top of her head, gripping her hair firmly.

When we fantasise about something, we usually imagine it visually. What I remember most vividly about this experience is how tactile it felt.

My eyes remained focused on the road. I could feel the warm, wet sloppiness of her mouth as she sucked my cock. Every so often I glanced down to watch the back of her head moving rhythmically. I reached across and squeezed her ass, drawing a loud, involuntary moan from her.

After a while, I made her stop. I did not want to climax in the car, and so we spent the final part of the drive in relative calm.

Deep within the narrow lanes of her residential neighbourhood, surrounded by parked bikes, overflowing garbage, yellow streetlights, and steady rain, I pulled over just before her apartment building.

In a somewhat joking yet commanding tone, I told her to bend over.

She immediately placed her hands against the passenger-side window and pushed her ass back towards me.

I spanked her.

Again and again.

Each strike drew louder moans than the last.

I pulled down her pyjama bottoms and bit her ass. She cried out and asked me to stop. So I stopped.

I then instructed her to remove her pants and leave her wet panties on the seat for me.

She obeyed.

I told her to put her pyjama bottoms into her bag and walk back to her building.

She hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, and got out of the car. That was the end of the night.

Through the rain and the rhythmic movement of the wipers, I watched her walk towards the gate of her apartment complex, knowing that she was pantless and pantyless.

We met a few more times over the following months, but that is a different story.

Eventually, she ended things with me because she was uncomfortable with the fact that I was non-monogamous. We had always been honest with each other from the beginning. Our understanding was simple: we would continue seeing each other for as long as we both wanted to, and either of us could walk away without resentment, awkwardness, or embarrassment.

This story remains special to me because of its intensity and because of how vividly I remember it on a tactile level. I remember the sound of the puppy like welp she made when I spanked her for the first time - hours after meeting her. And I remember her warm mouth and wet hair in my hands while I drove on the highway. It reminds me that penetrative sex is not necessary to experience great sexuality. Sometimes the anticipation, restraint, atmosphere, and physical connection are more memorable than the act itself.

She recently got married in a conservative setup and we decided to not contact each other again unless absolutely necessary.

I will attach a couple of relevant screenshots if I can find them and she consents to it.

https://ibb.co/35K7sJMS

https://ibb.co/0pj6t62Z