r/nsfw_confessions_in

I need to confess something filthy that’s been living rent-free in my head.

I get so fucking wet thinking about being a Daddy’s spoiled, bratty little slut. The kind who talks back just to get a reaction. Who rolls her eyes, stamps her foot, and deliberately pushes every button she can find because she knows what’s coming.

I’ll act out on purpose. Mouth off. Refuse. Dare him. And he doesn’t even raise his voice. He just starts taking things away one by one like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Phone? Gone. Clothes? Stripped off me while I’m still protesting. Orgasm rights? Completely revoked. He’ll edge me until I’m shaking and leaking down my thighs, then lock that privilege away like I don’t deserve it.

I keep going until I’m a mess. Begging. Crying. Sniffling and apologizing through tears because I’ve finally broken. That’s when the switch flips.

Suddenly I’m his good girl again. Soft praise in my ear while he uses me however he wants. Spreading me open, filling me, fucking me deep while I’m still hiccupping and wet-faced. Telling me how pretty I look when I’m ruined and obedient. Using my mouth, my cunt, my ass, whatever he feels like claiming... while I cling to him and thank him for still wanting his bratty little slut after she was so bad.

I want to be spoiled . I want to be punished. I want to be broken down until I’m nothing but a sniffling, grateful hole for Daddy to empty himself into.

God, I’m such a dirty little girl for this. 😵‍💫

​

About me:

Let’s get the context out of the way first, so you know exactly who is writing this.

I go by leftleaninglonglegs. I’m in my early thirties, but I easily pass for 24. I’m tall and lean, with naturally sharp posture that somehow makes my skinniness work in my favour. My hands are heavily veined, and I carry myself with a certain intensity.

I work in a creative field, and I’m just a little bit famous. I guess you could say I’m a “type”, the kind of guy who gets a lot of female attention without really trying.

Moving to Mumbai completely transformed me. It brought back the confidence I’d lost, and the city completely changed my style. But beneath the polished creative exterior, I’m pretty fucked up.

My childhood was toxic, abusive, and deeply problematic. Because of that baggage, I battle with a heavy drinking problem, a short temper, and I don't back down from a physical fight.

I’m currently in a relationship, but my girlfriend has absolutely no idea about the double life I lead.

I don’t like to call myself a “bull”, but I’ve had my fair share of wild, secret experiences. Normal, vanilla intimacy doesn't do it for me anymore. Because my head is so messed up, I need a psychological edge to get excited.

It has to be taboo. It has to involve cheating, married women, risk, and crossing lines you're not supposed to cross.

The Beginning:

That brings me to the incident.

A while ago, I was invited to a high society party in South Bombay. It was crawling with ultra rich elites, and for some reason, everyone was treating me like a star.

I was on fire that night, sharp witted and argumentative. At one point, I got into a massive debate with an older uncle who was loudly bragging about being a proud, devout Hindu.

He clearly didn't realise I come from a traditional Pandit family.

I called him out on his bluff right there in front of everyone and challenged him to recite the Hanuman Chalisa. He completely froze, lost his entire aura of superiority in seconds, and literally fled the party in embarrassment.

The crowd loved it.

Among the guests was a couple I’d known vaguely for a long time. They were obscenely wealthy and had been casually interacting with me on Instagram for a while.

Let’s call the husband Bhaskar and the wife Meher.

We gravitated toward each other, and our initial bond sparked over food. Both of them were genuinely fascinated by how deeply I understood Indian spices and culinary history.

But as the conversation went on, I noticed Meher becoming intensely focused on me.

Suddenly, Bhaskar’s phone rang. He stepped away to take the call, leaving Meher and me completely alone.

She didn't waste any time.

“So, leftleaninglonglegs, you get a lot of action, right? You must be sleeping around constantly.”

I didn’t blink.

“Honestly? No,” I replied. “First, I don't just sleep with anyone. Second, I’m the type who prefers the thrill of falling in love, and I’m actually in the middle of processing that right now.”

She looked genuinely shocked, a small smirk playing on her lips.

“Alright,” she joked, leaning closer. “It’s my responsibility now to fix that.”

I laughed, matching her playful energy.

“I am \*not\* fucking you, Meher.”

We both laughed, but the tension in the air instantly shifted.

She held my gaze.

“I just mean I’ll make sure you get your action. You’re young. You should be enjoying yourself.”

“I’m not as young as you think,” I pointed out. “I’m thirty. And, like I said, I’m kind of seeing someone.”

Her eyes lit up at the mention of the restriction.

“Oh, perfect,” she teased. “Now we can both cheat and share the equal guilt.”

“Well,” I said, a dangerous edge creeping into my voice, “that \*could\* happen.”

She didn't hesitate.

“I'll just ask Bhaskar to watch. I think he’d actually enjoy it.”

Before I could process that bombshell, one of her high society friends interrupted us.

Meher seamlessly switched gears, playing it completely cool and suddenly acting like a wingwoman, trying to set me up with her friend.

But the damage was already done.

Let me describe Meher.

She’s 37, has one kid, runs her own successful business, and drives an insanely expensive luxury car. She’s tall, stunningly rich, and breathtakingly hot. She honestly looks like she belongs in Spain.

Her features are so perfect I'm convinced she's had some elite work done, because people don't naturally look that flawless.

I’m a massive ass guy, and her figure is unreal. Curvy, thick in all the right places, and absolutely mesmerizing.

Up until that conversation, she was just an acquaintance.

But the moment she mentioned the taboo, the cheating, the husband watching, the sheer risk of it, something flipped in my brain.

I don't see a beautiful woman and just want to sleep with her. I need the thrill of the forbidden.

Now, I don't see Meher as just a friend.

I see her as prey.

That night, I did what I always do. I drank heavily to quiet my mind.

I ended up dancing with the friend Meher had introduced me to, and I went back to her place. We slept together, but even while I was with her, I couldn't claw Meher out of my head.

The conversation from the party was on a loop in my brain.

Look, I do a lot of wild things, but I’m not entirely numb. The guilt of this double life is a slow poison, and I can feel it adding up day by day.

Meeting the Husband:

The very next afternoon, Bhaskar called me.

He asked if we could meet up, claiming he needed some help managing his company’s social media. I told him point blank that I knew next to nothing about social media algorithms, but he insisted. He said he’d pay me handsomely for my time.

Hey, it's Mumbai. You don't turn down easy money.

We met at an old street bar in Bandra. To my surprise, Bhaskar was an incredibly chill guy.

As we started talking, I realised we had almost exactly the same taste in music. We both loved old British rock bands and the soulful classics of Mohammed Rafi.

He was easy to talk to, and I honestly thought, \*Damn, this guy could actually be a great drinking buddy.\*

But by the time we were three pegs down, the vibe shifted completely.

Bhaskar leaned across the table, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “Meher likes you a lot, you know.”

I immediately put up my guard. I played the purest, most innocent version of myself and gave him a polite, flattered, “Awww.”

Bhaskar burst out laughing.

“Come on, man. Don't ‘aww’ me. You want to fuck my wife. I know it.”

Now, let's be clear. I don't fear fights. If a guy pulls a knife or throws a punch at me, I know how to handle myself.

But this?

This was just weird.

If he had suddenly swung at me, I probably wouldn't even have fought back out of pure confusion.

I opened my mouth to say something, to deny it, but he cut me off.

“Do you mind if I watch?”

I froze for a split second, taking a sip of my drink to hide my shock.

“I'll think about it,” I replied, keeping my voice steady.

“Look,” Bhaskar explained, leaning in closer. “I don't want you to just show up at my house and straight up fuck my wife. I want it to be a game. We've been in this lifestyle for a very long time, but honestly, all we ever find are brainless gym bros. They have zero intellect. They have absolutely no skill when it comes to actually igniting a woman's mind or building real tension.”

A dark smile crept onto my face.

The taboo was officially locked in, and my messed up brain loved it.

“Okay,” I said. “I have a plan. But we have to play this perfectly.”

I looked at him and laid it out.

“I'm going to seduce and impress her right in front of you, but you cannot tell her that I agreed to this. I want her to think this is 100% organic.

“When you go home tonight, tell her that you brought up the topic of the cuckold lifestyle to me, and tell her that I heavily criticised it. Tell her I said I would never, ever touch another man's wife.

“That way, the next time she sees me, she'll think I'm totally off limits. She won't have a clue that I'm actually going to flirt with her and humiliate you right in front of her eyes.”

Bhaskar’s eyes lit up.

He absolutely loved the plan.

The trap was set.

The House Party:

The following weekend, they hosted a small get together at their lavish house.

The moment I walked through the door, I didn't play it safe. I stepped right up to Meher, pulled her into a warm, lingering hug, and whispered a compliment about how breathtakingly beautiful she looked.

As the drinks flowed, the creative, performative side of me took over. I’m a decent bathroom singer, so at one point, I grabbed everyone's attention and sang a classic, sultry track directly to her.

Then I pulled her into a slow dance in front of everyone.

For the rest of the evening, I made sure she was glued to my side. Every time we sat down, I casually rested my hand on the small of her bare back, letting my fingers brush against her skin.

She didn't pull away.

Instead, she started casually touching my arm and leaning into me.

The chemistry was so loud that one of the guests laughed and joked, “Damn, you guys look so good together.”

Bhaskar, playing his role perfectly, chimed in with a grin.

“Honestly, they look like they just got married.”

The room erupted into laughter.

Under the cover of the noise, I leaned in close to Meher's ear, my breath hot against her neck.

I looked her straight in the eyes and whispered, “Honey, let's go inside. Your new husband wants to fuck you.”

Meher’s eyes lit up, but a flicker of confusion crossed her face.

She tried to deflect the intensity with a nervous laugh.

“Right now?” she replied, her voice a teasing whisper. “Why don't you just do it here in front of everyone?”

I didn't smile. I kept my gaze locked onto hers.

“I could,” I said, leaning in just close enough for her to feel the weight of my words. “But I don't want them to see you naked. You're my property.”

The playful smirk instantly vanished from her face.

Bhaskar had tipped me off earlier about her hidden psychology. She didn't just want a physical encounter. She craved psychological degradation. She wanted the kind of raw, deeply personal words that cross boundaries while she was being taken.

And because I perfectly embodied the exact type of chaotic, dangerous guy that parents warn their daughters to stay far away from, her desire to be ruined by me was hitting a breaking point.

A little later, I walked away from the crowd and went into the kitchen to mix myself another drink. The mixers were kept in the refrigerator.

Within seconds, I heard the soft click of her heels behind me.

Meher had followed me in.

“Do you need any help here?” she asked, her voice dropping lower, trying to regain her footing.

I turned around slowly and looked down at her.

“Yes,” I said, my tone completely detached. “I want to spit. I'm looking for a slut.”

Without a second's hesitation, her mouth parted.

I spit directly inside her mouth.

Instantly, she leaned into me, closing her eyes and trying to pull me into a deep, desperate kiss.

But I didn't give her the satisfaction.

I placed a firm hand on her shoulder and pushed her back, breaking her momentum.

A cruel chuckle escaped my lips as I mocked her right to her face.

“Awww... did Meher think I was actually going to kiss her? Does Meher really think I’m just going to fuck her?”

The darkest part of being psychologically messed up is knowing exactly how these toxic, demeaning games work to completely shatter someone's composure.

Standing inches from her, I could practically feel her heartbeat racing through her chest.

I could bet everything I owned that her panties were already completely soaked.

Instead of backing down or getting angry, she looked up at me, her breathing shallow.

“Can you please spit again?” she whispered.

I didn't answer.

I reached out, took the luxury glass right out of her hand, and spit directly into her drink.

Without saying another word, I turned my back on her, walked out of the kitchen, and rejoined the guests in the living room as if nothing had happened.

A moment later, Meher walked back into the hall.

She held that exact glass in her hand, sat down right where everyone could see her, and calmly took slow, deliberate sips of her drink while keeping her eyes locked entirely on me.

The beginning of the end:

It was 2 a.m. when people slowly started leaving the party. I watched the last guest walk out and pretended that I was about to leave as well.

The last guest offered me a ride. His driver was waiting outside, but I refused.

“You don’t have to do that,” I told him.

He left, and suddenly there were only three of us sitting in the hall: Meher, Bhaskar, and me.

Meher still believed the story I had allowed her to believe. Bhaskar, meanwhile, had no idea what was actually happening. Meher thought I was fighting some kind of moral battle, that I was desperately trying to control myself because, in my mind, sleeping with a married woman was somehow forbidden.

Bhaskar stood up.

“Excuse me, guys. I’m going to get some sleep. Leftleaninglonglegs, you can sit here, have a few more drinks, and leave whenever you want.”

He disappeared into the bedroom.

There were two sofas facing each other, with a small table between them. Meher sat on one. I sat opposite her.

I looked at her and ordered 

“Remove your gown.”

She didn’t hesitate.

She slowly slipped the gown off, like she has learned the perfect way to open her gown that can make anyone fuck her.

Her body was pale, almost white against the dim yellow light of the room. Let me make one thing clear: I have never had a particular preference for fair skin. I like brown women. But I’m describing what I saw, not what I prefer.

Her breasts were large and perfectly shaped. There was something distinctly maternal about them, you could tell she was a mother just by looking at her body.

Her thighs were thick, but her ass was the real spectacle. I had never seen anything so perfectly round, so full, so unapologetically there.

I had once told Bhaskar that I wanted to fuck Meher’s ass.

“She’s not into anal,” he had said. “We tried. She didn’t like it.”

That sentence had lodged itself somewhere in my head.

From that moment, a part of me became obsessed with the idea of proving him wrong. I wanted to possess the one thing she had refused to give anyone. I wanted to turn the rejection itself into a victory.

And that was the direction my mind had slowly started moving in.

Meher sat opposite me in lingerie. I could see that she was aroused. She kept shifting in her seat, unable to sit still. She tried moving closer.

“Back off,” I said.

She tried touching me.

I pushed her hand away.

She finally slid down onto the floor while I remained on the sofa.

I opened my pants and began masturbating while looking at her.

Her eyes immediately dropped to me.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You have veins.”

I don’t know what people imagine when they talk about having a big dick. I’ve always been insecure about mine, despite it being more than six inches. But over time, I’ve realised that size isn’t the only thing that matters. If something looks clean and well-kept, it can change the entire impression.

I’ve seen women completely lose interest when a penis looks unhygienic or unpleasant, regardless of its size.

Meher was staring at me with an almost desperate hunger.

She removed her underwear and began touching herself. I saw a thick transparent jelly like thing gushing out from her vagina. 

“Move your hands.”

She stopped.

There was anger in her eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

She looked like a spoiled child who had just been denied something she desperately wanted.

“Please,” she said. “Fuck me.”

She turned around and got onto all fours, presenting herself to me.

“You want this, right?” she said. “Come take it.”

The way she said take it, I think last time my mother called me with so much love.

I told her to grind herself against the edge of the sofa.

She immediately obeyed.

Her movements became frantic. Her body moved with the rhythm of someone who had completely surrendered control. She made sounds that made it increasingly difficult for me to maintain the distance I had been trying to create.

“Please,” she begged. “Please fuck me.”

Then, almost desperately:

“Please don’t cum.”

That did it.

I lost control and came onto the floor.

Before I could even process what had happened, she rushed toward it like a wild animal and started licking the floor.

I grabbed her gown, cleaned myself, dressed, and walked out while she shouted behind me like a child who had just been denied the thing she wanted most.

I went downstairs and opened Uber.

A few moments later, she came running after me, now wearing a satin silk robe. I could tell she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

“Want a cigarette?” she asked.

We lit them and stood outside.

“You can sleep here, you know,” she said.

I looked at her.

“I’ll sleep here. Then we definitely won’t be sleeping.”

She smiled.

“That’s completely fine.”

My Uber was two minutes away. I smoked quickly because I hate smoking inside someone else’s car.

She looked at me.

“Can you at least do something? A slap? A kiss, maybe just let me lick your dick? Can I smell you?”

She was acting like sex fanatic 

The road was empty.

I moved closer, pulled part of her robe away from her left breast, and kissed it before biting down hard.

She gasped. It was so hard that she had teary eyes. I shouldn't be proud of this but I love it! My control over someone that she will not complain about anything.

I looked at my phone.

“You have two minutes to orgasm.”

There was something deeply humiliating and intoxicating about the situation. She locked her eyes on mine, bit her lip, and began touching herself.

I helped her by pinching her other nipple.

She said my name.

And then something strange happened.

I started abusing her in Hindi.

“Tujhe lagta tha na ki tujhe chhodne ke liye log pagal honge? Tere jaise ameer baap ki beti ko main apne lund ke neeche rakhta hoon. Isiliye thook diya tere chuth pe. Kal batana apne ameer baap aur ameer pati ko ki tumhari amanat ko chhua tak nahi. Main hi usse chudne ke liye pagal hoon. Uske pair pakad rahi thi”

She looked at me.

“Mujhe apni randi bana lo,” she whispered. “Please. Main ye deserve karti hoon.”

“Banegi meri randi?” i said

She nodded.

“Hilayegi apna gand mere lund pe?”

She didn't answer.

“Apne chuth ke paani se nahayegi mere lund ko?”

She closed her eyes.

And then she came.

The orgasm seemed to completely overwhelm her. Her legs gave out and she sank onto the road.

My Uber arrived.

I looked at her one last time and got into the car.

As I sat in the back seat, watching the house disappear behind me, I kept thinking about what had just happened, and, more importantly, what was about to happen.

But one thing had changed in my mind.

Whenever I did things like this, I had a convenient explanation for myself.

My toxic childhood.

The molestation.

Growing up poor.

The anger.

The humiliation.

I had spent years telling myself that all of it had shaped me into this person.

But that night, sitting alone in the back of an Uber, another question finally appeared.

What had happened to Meher?

Why was she like this?

What had made her want this?

What had happened in her life that had brought her to that road, at two in the morning, begging a man to treat her like something she supposedly hated being?

I didn't have an answer.

And what happened after that night will sound unbelievable.

You can believe me or you can call me a liar. Either way, it doesn't change the point.

It's a big country.

And if you've ever studied probability, you know that just because something happened to me doesn't mean it happened only to me.

Maybe it happened to someone else.

Maybe it's happening to someone right now.

Or maybe, somewhere in this country, it's about to happen to someone else.

Do you ever open Reddit or start scrolling and suddenly get so turned on you can’t focus on anything else?

I’m 28F , divorce mom, and it happens to me way more than it should. I’ll just be casually looking around, and then one post or one conversation later I’m already wet, restless, and thinking about being used. It’s like my body switches into slut mode without warning.

I try to act normal and keep browsing, but the more I scroll the worse it gets. Sometimes I end up pressing my thighs together just from reading, and I have to force myself to put the phone down… or I don’t.

Anyone else get like this? Where simply browsing is enough to make you feel completely needy and horny? Tell me what usually sets you off..