r/TrivandrumConfessions

The notification on my phone buzzed at 3:14 PM, cutting through the heavy, stagnant quiet of my empty apartment. I was sitting on the plush velvet sofa, legs curled under me, idly scrolling through Instagram. Shorabh was away in Hyderabad on a grueling forty-day outdoor schedule for a massive period drama, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I opened the DM. The account had a generic profile picture of a mountain landscape and the handle _vikram_shah_99.

_vikram_shah_99: Hey Natasha... so nice to find you here, it’s been so long since we chatted on Google Chat... you looked so sexy in that black bra pic you shared last time... I’ll be in Mumbai next month, would you like to meet?

My breath caught in my throat. The room suddenly felt freezing cold.

Natasha. That was the name I used to go by back in my twenties, during my brief modeling days and my time flying as an air hostess. But it wasn't the name that made my heart race frantically against my ribs—it was the mention of the picture.

The black lace bra. The deliberate, playful angle, one side slipped down to expose my breast.

I remembered taking it so vividly. It was six months ago, on a lonely Friday night when Shorabh was working late at a studio in Film City. Wanting to shock him out of his usual exhausting routine and inject some spice into our marriage, I had locked myself in the bathroom, spent ten minutes getting the lighting just right, clicked the selfie, and sent it straight to his WhatsApp.

Shorabh’s reply back then had been a text an hour later: Wow baby, looks hot. Sorry, stuck in a shot, will talk later. When he finally came home at 3:00 AM, he had simply kissed my forehead, muttered that he was utterly exhausted, and fallen asleep.

I sat frozen, staring at the glowing screen. My mind spun back through the sixteen years of our marriage. Shorabh was a brilliant makeup artist, highly sought after by top Bollywood actresses for his gentle touch. Because of his profession, my friends had dropped sly, tequila-fueled hints over the years. "Oh, come on, Nisha, a straight guy in that industry? Are you sure he’s not... you know?"

I had always shut them down. "Shut up, guys. He’s just creative."

But privately, the doubt had always tasted like ash. Shorabh rarely initiated intimacy. It was always “I’m too tired, Nish,” or “I have a 4:00 AM call-sheet tomorrow, honey.” I had genuinely begun to wonder if he was bisexual, or perhaps completely closeted, staying in our marriage out of comfort. I had accepted the lack of passion as the price for a stable, loving marriage.

But this message changed everything. How did a man named Vikram get a photo that had only ever existed on my phone and Shorabh’s?

With trembling fingers, I typed back to Vikram on Instagram.

Me: Who is this? How do you have that picture?

A few minutes passed.

_vikram_shah_99: Come on Natasha, don’t play coy now. It’s Vikram from Delhi. We’ve been trading pics for a year on Hangouts/G-Chat. You sent me that one from your 'secret account' last November when you said your husband was asleep. Did you forget your favorite online buddy? 😉

I felt a sickening wave of realization wash over me. A year. Someone had been catfishing this man using my identity. But the black bra photo was strictly private. It had never been posted online.

I stood up, my legs shaking, and walked over to our dressing room. I looked at the vanity table covered in Shorabh's backup makeup kits. A thought struck me, sharp and terrifying.

Shorabh’s iPad was charging on the nightstand. We knew each other’s passcodes—there were no secrets in our house, or so I had thought.

I picked up the iPad, unlocked it, and opened the Google apps folder. There, tucked away inside a hidden app library, was the Google Chat app. I tapped it. The app opened automatically, logged into an account I didn't recognize:

My eyes scanned the chat history. There were threads with different men: Vikram, Rohan, Amit, and Kabir. I opened the chats and began to read, my jaw tightening as the digital trail of my husband's secret life laid itself bare.

Shorabh wasn't cheating on me with another woman. He wasn't even secretly meeting men. He was using my body, my face, and my identity to live out a secret life online. He was just teasing them, sexting, getting off on the thrill of the digital chase while parading me around as his avatar.

I dug into the profiles of the men he had been talking to.

There was Vikram, a wealthy, confident businessman in his 40s from Delhi who traveled frequently. He had sent explicit nudes to 'Natasha'—he was a stocky, hairy Punjabi guy, aggressively well-hung, and certainly much bigger than Shorabh. Then there was Amit, a 22-year-old university student from Pune. From his messages, Amit seemed incredibly shy and innocent, his texts polite and eager. He, too, had been coaxed into sharing his nudes, looking vulnerable yet eager to please the older, sophisticated 'Natasha.' Then there were Rohan and Kabir, both equally captivated by the fantasy Shorabh had spun.

As I scrolled deeper into the logs with Vikram, one recent conversation caught my eye. Vikram had been pushing to meet up, and Shorabh, typing as me, had written: 'I love it when my husband watches. I love threesomes. I want him in the room, watching every single thing you do to me.'

A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach, quickly replaced by a blinding wave of rage. If he had just come clean to me, told me he was bi, we could have talked. But to leave me feeling rejected in our bed while playing out his voyeuristic, bisexual fantasies using my face online?

And then the cold terror struck me. He had harvested years of my private moments. Photos of me doing my morning yoga routines in sheer leggings, showcasing my bubble butt to the camera. Full nudes of my 38C breasts, with my face clearly visible in almost every single one of them. He had forwarded them to absolute strangers. My reputation was at the mercy of random men, all because my husband needed a safe digital playground.

No, I thought. I am not going to screamingly confront him. He wants to play games? Let's play.

He loved the fantasy of his husband 'watching.' A slow, cold smile spread across my face. It was time to give him exactly what he wanted. Since he had already laid the groundwork with Vikram about a threesome, I decided Vikram would be the perfect opening act.

I sat down on the bed and opened the Instagram app on my phone. I tapped on Vikram’s DM.

Me: Hey Vikram. Sorry for the confusion earlier, just had to make sure it was really you. I’d love to meet up in Mumbai next month. Remember what I told you about my husband? He loves to watch. I’ll book a luxury suite at the JW Marriott. I’ll leave the room door unlatched. Come straight in.

Vikram replied almost instantly, practically salivating through the screen.

But I wasn't stopping there. Over the next three weeks, I logged into Shorabh’s fake Google Chat account. Posing as 'Natasha,' I messaged Rohan, Amit, and Kabir. I gave them all the exact same date, the same hotel, and the same room number, staggered exactly thirty minutes apart. I knew shy young Amit from Pune would be terrified but thrilled, and Rohan and Kabir would follow right on schedule.

When Shorabh returned from his shoot in Hyderabad, he was his usual meek self. The next morning over breakfast, I told him I booked us a staycation at the JW Marriott to celebrate. He was thrilled.

On the day of the staycation, we checked into a gorgeous, sprawling suite overlooking the Arabian Sea. Shorabh immediately went to take a long, relaxing shower. While the water was running, I took his phone and sent a final confirmation message to Rohan, Amit, and Kabir.

Then I changed into what I had brought specifically for tonight: a scandalous, ultra-sheer black lace teddy that left almost nothing to the imagination, hugging my curves and accentuating my 38C breasts, paired with a matching thigh-high silk robe that I left completely open. I did my makeup flawlessly, looking every bit the high-glamour 'Natasha' from his chats.

At forty, I had never let myself go. My years of modeling and flying had taught me how to carry my body, and my daily yoga kept my silhouette sharp—my narrow waist flaring out into the full curve of my hips and bubble butt, my 38C breasts filling out the sheer black lace teddy perfectly. I was a woman who deserved to be desired, a woman whose husband hadn’t touched her in months.

When I stepped into the bathroom, Shorabh looked so incredibly small. Standing there in his towel, with his slight, delicate frame, slouched shoulders, and soft, manicured hands, he looked like a boy caught stealing. He had none of the raw, heavy masculinity of the men he had been texting. Looking at his anxious, boyish face and his trembling lips, the sheer irony of it struck me. He was a fragile, passive man who had been playing the role of a voluptuous, dominant fantasy online, completely terrified of the real world.

"Shorabh," I said, my voice completely flat.

He turned around, smiling, but his eyes dropped to my revealing outfit, then to the iPad in my hand. The screen was glowing with the natasha_mumbai83 account open, displaying his chats about my yoga poses and his explicit fantasy about a threesome.

His face turned completely white. "N-Nisha... what is this?"

"There's nothing to explain," I said calmly, checking my watch. It was 5:58 PM. "You love being me, Shorabh. You love sexting these men. And according to your chat with Vikram, you absolutely love the idea of a threesome where the husband watches. Since you told him you wanted to watch... I decided to make your dream come true."

"Nisha, please, it was just texting!" He began to sob, sinking to his knees on the bathroom tile. "I was just teasing them! I never met anyone! It was just a fantasy!"

"I know you never met them," I said, walking to the bathroom door. "But you used my body as the gameboard. Vikram is walking through the suite door right about now. And don't worry, Rohan, Amit, and Kabir will be arriving every thirty minutes after him."

Shorabh’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror. "No, no, Nisha, please, close the door! Cancel it!"

"Why should I? You invited them."

I stepped out of the bathroom into the dimly lit bedroom. I heard the main door of the suite click open, followed by heavy, confident footsteps entering the living room.

"Natasha?" Vikram's deep, booming voice called out.

I stepped into the living area. Vikram was standing there, a large, imposing, handsome Punjabi man in his 40s wearing a crisp linen shirt. His eyes widened, raking over my sheer black lace teddy, taking in my body in the flesh. A dark, intense smirk spread across his face.

"You look even better than the pictures," he murmured, stepping directly into my space.

I didn't say a word. I looked past his shoulder toward the bathroom door, which I had left wide open. Shorabh was frozen on his knees, clutching his towel, staring out at us in absolute terror.

Vikram reached out, his large, warm hands gripping my waist tightly, pulling my body flush against his. He didn't waste any time. He tilted my chin up and brought his lips down to mine.

The kiss was heavy, dominant, and deeply possessive—completely different from the timid, rare affection I had known for sixteen years. Vikram tasted like expensive cologne and pure, unbridled desire, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, claiming me right there in the center of the room. I let myself melt into it, running my fingers through his hair, deliberately making sure the wet, smacking sound of our deep kiss echoed through the quiet suite.

From the bathroom floor, Shorabh let out a choked, whimpering gasp, forced to watch the exact reality he had spent a year typing into existence.

I pulled back from the kiss, breathless, a cold smile playing on my lips as I looked at Vikram. "My husband is right through there," I whispered against his lips, pointing toward the bathroom. "He’s been waiting to watch you take me. Go make sure he stays in the corner.

Im a 32 F married mother, I'm taking charge of my life while my husband works abroad. My career in a study abroad consultancy keeps me engaged, with students constantly coming in for coaching and admission-related queries. I've also been exploring my own desires, indulging in short-term flings with attractive younger men. With a high libido and unrelenting cravings, I'm embracing my needs and refusing to suppress them, even as a family woman. I firmly believe that I deserve to have fun and experience pleasure, and I'm not letting my marital status or motherhood hold me back from doing so. By giving in to my desires, I'm taking control of my own happiness and satisfaction, and I'm unapologetic about it.

Read Part 1: here

There's something I completely omitted in the first part of my story, mostly because it's the heaviest reality we have to carry. We’re both married. Her husband works for the Central Government and is posted out of Kerala, leaving her with a quiet apartment and a lot of empty evenings. My wife is here with me, working as a teacher, which means her days are structured around early mornings and predictable school schedules. Neither of us was unhappy in our respective marriages. We didn’t enter this looking for an escape from a broken home. But the truth is simple we’re just happier when we are together. That's why I just called her Miss G in the beginning, to keep that wall up.

Once the New Year passed and those first I love you's were out in the open, the months between January and March turned into a finely tuned, high stakes routine right in the middle of Kochi Infopark.

By January, the casual text messages and the lingering anxiety of the early days had completely solidified into an addiction. We became incredibly efficient at managing our double life. During the day, we kept our distance and didn't do anything out of the blue or reckless on the floor. No one in the office suspected a thing because our behavior outside of a standard corporate relationship was completely non existent during business hours. We always stayed late anyway because we genuinely had a massive workload to clear, and it became our natural cover. As the floor began to thin out after 8 00 PM, the atmosphere changed. By 9 00 PM, we were usually the last two people left in the entire bay. The silence of an empty office building is heavy, and just being the last ones there, knowing what was waiting for us once we punched out, made the long hours completely worth it.

When we finally left the campus late at night, navigating the traffic fading out around Kakkanad, we didn’t want to rush. Because her husband was out of town and my wife’s teaching schedule meant she was often asleep early, we found ourselves with pockets of time that we wanted to treat as special. We stopped booking the cheap, hurried rooms. By February, we started booking fancy hotels premium business suites and luxury spots mostly around Ernakulam where the service was invisible and the rooms felt entirely detached from our normal lives. We never travelled outside of ernakulam, but we switched hotels at times to random places around the city to keep things completely low profile. Those premium rooms became a parallel universe. There was no guilt because we didn't allow our home lives to seep into the space. We knew each other’s bodies flawlessly by now. I knew the exact weight of her soft curves as she lay back on the heavy linen sheets. We would spend hours just enjoying the contrast from the exhausting office pressure to the quiet luxury of a suite where she’d be wearing nothing but her favorite black bra, letting me trace the dark moles on her breasts while the city hummed outside the windows. We weren't tearing at each other like animals we took our time, treating every weekend like an exclusive vacation.

Then March came and everything got complicated. Handling everything became too heavy being a husband at home, clearing the workload at office, and then managing these hotel rooms. It was draining me out and I knew as long as we sit in the same floor we won't be able to stop this. So I decided to put in my resignation in March, I got an offer from another company. When I told her, things just went crazy. We didn't stop at all. If anything, knowing that there is an end date made us completely loose control over texts. We were sexting like anything during work hours, just waiting for the floor to get empty. The hotel rooms felt more intense because we both knew the countdown has started and we were just trying to grab every single moment we could before my notice period gets over.

April to June will be the next part.

The monsoon storm outside had completely taken over the afternoon, turning the world beyond the window into a blurred canvas of dark grey and green. The rain didn't just fall; it came down in heavy, relentless sheets, drumming against the glass pane with a deep, vibrating rhythm that seemed to echo the growing restlessness in my own body. The air inside the bedroom was thick, heavy with humidity, and charged with the electric scent of wet earth. It was the kind of weather that made everything feel slow, heavy, and intensely alive.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, the dark shadows of the storm casting a soft, dim light across my skin. At 46, my body had settled into a soft, voluptuous maturity. I slowly reached for the pallu of my house saree, letting the lightweight cotton slip off my shoulder and pool around my waist. My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the front hooks of my blouse. One by one, I undone them, letting the fabric fall open.

Without the restriction of the blouse, my breasts spilled free. They were a full, heavy 38C, bearing the natural, soft sag of a mature woman who had lived, changed, and filled out over the years. They hung with a lush weight that felt incredibly sensual in the dim light. I cupped them both in my palms, feeling the full, heavy warmth of them, lifting them slightly to feel their weight. My thumbs stroked lazily over the soft skin, moving inward toward the wide, dark circles of my aureoles. The cool breeze leaking through the window pane brushed against my skin, and I watched in the mirror as my nipples hardened into tight, deep-brown points under my own deliberate touch. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped my lips, fogging the air.

The sensation sent a direct, throbbing pulse straight down to my pelvis. Guided by the slow, hypnotic rhythm of the rain, my hands tracked downward. They slid over the full, rounded curve of my soft belly, tracking the warmth down to the drawstring of my petticoat. I loosened the knot, letting the skirt loosen and slip slightly down my hips.

As I slipped my hand beneath the cotton fabric, my fingers immediately brushed against the thick, coarse hair of my bush. It was dense, dark, and natural, holding the heavy, musk-tinged heat of my body. The texture of the hair against my fingertips felt intensely grounding and raw. I slipped my fingers deeper through the coarse hair, parting the outer lips to find the slick, swollen folds hidden beneath. The contrast was intoxicating—the rough, springy texture of my hair rubbing against the incredibly tender, soaking wet skin of my center. I was already dripping, a thick, warm moisture coating my fingers at the very first touch.

Needing to feel the full weight of my body, I moved slowly onto the bed, lying on my side on the cool, smooth sheets. The position caused my hips to flare out, accentuating the heavy, soft fullness of my ass. I reached one hand back, burying my fingers into the soft, yielding flesh of my backside, squeezing the full curve of my hip. The deep warmth radiating from my ass and thighs felt heavy and inviting.

With my other hand remaining between my thighs, nestled deep in that thick, damp hair, I began to move. I kept the pace slow, agonizingly deliberate, mirroring the heavy, steady downpour outside. I slid a finger through the wetness, circling the highly sensitive, swollen point at the top, pressing just hard enough to make my hips unconsciously rock forward into my hand. The friction of my hand against my coarse hair generated a delicious, burning heat.

Every slide of my finger was deep and slick, the wet sounds of my own arousal completely masked by the thunder rolling overhead. I squeezed my own ass, pulling my hips back to meet each slow stroke, completely losing myself in the heavy, mature sensuality of my own skin. The tension built from deep within my core, a slow, shimmering heat that tightened with every lazy circle of my finger.

My breathing grew shallow and ragged, my lips parting as a low moan finally broke through the silence of the room. The world narrowed down entirely to the weight of my breasts resting against each other, the heavy grip of my hand on my ass, and the unbearable, exquisite ache building beneath my damp hair. When the climax finally came, it wasn't a sudden snap, but a deep, rolling wave that started in my lower abdomen and spread outward, making my thighs shudder and my back arch elegantly against the pillows. I held myself tight as the long, powerful tremors rippled through me, leaving me completely spent, melting into the damp warmth of the rainy afternoon.

I was in my 9th std then, coming down to India every summer for the holidays. We had this house maid, been with us since I was a kid, real family-like. She had a daughter, and i used to play with her ever since my childhood. She was in college 1st yr then, had that cool, older-kid vibe. One afternoon, Everyone was out. She just looked at me, a sort of mischievous glint in her eye, and nodded towards the bedroom. I followed her in, no questions asked. She lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket over herself. I was standing right near the door.

She said "Come." I didn't even think, just slipped under the sheet with her. I was able to smell her perfume and something else. She was wearing a skirt, and me watching her the dim light, she pulled her skirt up and also removed her top. Then her hand found my head, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Kiss my thighs," she whispered. Her skin was so smooth, and I did as she said. I liked the way it felt. "Keep going," she breathed. After a minute, her grip on my hair tightened, guiding me further up. "Kiss me... right there." I could feel the heat coming through her panties, she was sooo damn wet. I hesitated. But then she slid her hands and removed her panties .

"Now," she said, with a firm tone. "Kiss me." I leaned in and pressed my lips against her clit. She started making these soft, breathy sounds. She started moving her own hand down there, while holding my head in place with the other. "Lick it," she moaned. I listened. After a while, she suddenly pushed the blanket off, woke up sat there and touched my dick. She picked up her panties and asked me to smell it. She kept looking at my eyes, pulled my dick out and started wacking the fuck out of it. I c*mmed a load out, godd. She wiped it, smiled, climbed out of bed, and quickly pulled on her panties and fixed her skirt. She looked at me, her face serious again. "This is our secret. Always," she said, and then she just walked out, leaving me there.

Happened sometime just after the covid ended. Never told this to anyone.

I (M) was 23 then. My aunt (40-45) visited my home one day. By evening, just as she was about to leave, my grandmother told me to drop her home. As I just got my license, I was so excited to have an opportunity to drive.

So, I took her and dropped her home. When we reached her home, she told me to come inside, have a cup of tea and then leave, which I said ok. I sat in the hall and she went inside.

After around 10 mins, she brought me tea and some snacks, but wearing ONLY bra and underskirt. I was like struck by a lightning when I saw her like that. What got me even more chilled was that she stood like that and had a small chat with me, like when will my degree be done, what's my plans after it, whether I will take GATE exam and such.

While having tea, she sat on the sofa on other side. I even got a glimpse of her panty through the thread gap of her underskirt. We chatted like this for 15, maybe 20 minutes, I had tea and left.

I was literally cold on my way back home. The scene of her in bra and underskirt was in my eyes. I was rock hard on my entire way back. Got home and had probably the BEST jerk off in my entire life. I came like crazy.

I still have the view of her in bra and glimpse of panty in my eyes. Nothing like this happened ever after.

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I'm 23 M

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F27 bi medico here looking for same minded F