Desi Sex Stories Many of you keep messaging me after every story. You tell me how you found the story. That feedback is the only reason I still post.
One of those chats led me to someone who actually walked into a cafe and sat across from me. That was the first time I actually met a reader in person, and it felt really great.
We had real conversations and met frequently to hang out! I’m sharing that story with you today.
Chapter 1: She Read my Story and then Lived it for Real
She found me through this website where I send these stories. Said she had become a fan of my writing. She herself writes for a living. It’s mostly fiction for web series. And she wanted to meet. She thought we’d click well.
She pinged me on Google Chat based on the e-mail ID I had shared in my posts.
She: Hi Pratty. My name is Nidhi. I like your stories. I want a real meeting with you.
I later learned that it was a fake name. She confessed it herself. We’ll get to it.
Me: Yes, sure, Nidhi. We can meet. Can you share your phone number with me?
She: I don’t want to share my number. But don’t worry. I’m very responsive on Google Chat.
I totally respected her decision. Came to know while chatting that she lived nearby. We fixed a cafe to meet up in a couple of days.
Her username on chat was one of those funky writer names. You can picture the kind. She walked in wearing a maroon satin top. V-neck, mandarin collar, sleeveless. Black jeans that hugged every curve. Short woman. Pear-shaped body. Black short hair, black eyes.
She had that kind of face that makes you stare, and when she looks back at you, you pretend you didn’t stare. We sat with mocktails and a plate of crispy chicken starter between us.
She: I really need to appreciate your writing. The way you write them, it feels to me like I’m a part of the story, seeing everything in front of my eyes. It’s that graphic, you know. Honestly, tell me, Pratty, are they just fiction or are they real?
Me: Oh, you’re flattering me now. So they’re real. Yes.
She looked surprised.
Me: Tell me, what’s the latest story you’ve read?
She: I read that Seema’s story where you went to take mangoes from her.
We both laughed at it and high-fived.
Me: Which one is your personal favorite?
She: The PPT to pussy worship one.
She whispered that to me because the place wasn’t empty and some things like these don’t need other people as an audience. A lot of you have written to me saying the same story is your favorite.
Me: Tell me, what do you do?
She: Pratty, I am a writer for web series, basically fiction, you know.
We had some awkward silence. Had to be. It was our first meet. At that point, the whole meeting still felt like one of those Tinder coffee dates that stay polite and never go anywhere. Conversation stayed light. Neither of us knew if a hookup would be on the agenda anytime soon.
Then it hit me. She looked exactly like my school batchmate Demiyana. Last time I saw Demiyana was a couple of years ago when I met with an accident.
A truck knocked me off the bike; it skidded a good ten meters. Probably took the hit that should have been mine. I was admitted to the hospital. Demiyana was the doctor on my case. This woman here had the same face, same expressions.
Back then, I tried flirting with Demiyana once I started recovering, thinking maybe I’d get somewhere once the bandages came off.
She didn’t take it offensively. She just told me quietly that she knew exactly where I was heading, but it wouldn’t take us anywhere because she was into women. She was a Lesbian. I said sour grapes and moved on. I didn’t tell Nidhi any of that.
Me: Nidhi, you look like one of my batchmates, Demiyana. Are you related to her in any way?
She: Yes, I’m her younger sister.
Her face changed at this point. Some discontent I couldn’t gauge. Awkward silence settled between us.
Me: So, I think it was nice meeting you. Keep reading my stories. See you soon if our paths cross.
She just smiled and said bye. That’s very dry for typical goodbyes. I paid the bill and walked out to my bike. She came running after me.
She: Pratty. Wait. I want to confess to something.
Me: What happened, Nidhi?
She: Well. That’s not my real name. I’m Demiyana’s younger sister, just as you guessed. But my name is Sheryl.
Me: Well. I won’t ask you why you did that. But rather appreciate that you confessed.
Sheryl: That’s because I thought we met through this sex stories website. I initially thought you didn’t need to know my real name. I feel we can click well together. Friends?
She extended a warm handshake, and I joined. We exchanged numbers. She sent me links on WhatsApp to a few short web series she had written. Of course they were free to watch, quick episodes. Not the kind of endless soap that drags on for months and years.
Sheryl: Maybe we can meet again soon.
Me: Yeah, definitely.
Then we left. A couple of days later, she called in the morning
Sheryl: Pratty, what are you doing today? Like around four in the evening, there was a script reading arranged. I could bring in a guest, they said. Would you like to come with me?
Me: Sure thing! I can drive you to the venue.
Sheryl: That’s great. I would love that. I’ve always traveled to that place on my scooty or maybe by using public transport. Others would find it great if I came in a car.
Me: Traveling on a scooty or using public transport doesn’t make you low.
Sheryl: In showbiz, it simply attracts more attention. The more attention, the more writing contracts.
I fail to understand this shitass mindset, but anyway.
We met at 3 PM. I picked her up in my car. She hugged me as soon as she sat in my car. She had her eyes closed, let out a long slow exhale, and gave me two pats on the back. I patted her back. My hands landed right on the bra straps through her clothes. She didn’t react. The whole thing felt electric.
Green satin top this time, same type as the maroon one. Black jeans, wedged sandals, Wayfarer sunglasses. Looked hot in that understated way some women manage to look great without trying too hard.
The shoot was indoors in an office building. I had to park outside for a while when she finished the entry formalities for me as her guest. At that time, she handed me her handbag and a few other things to carry. Asked me to wait at a spot until she came back.
I stood there holding the bag and noticed half a dozen other guys also standing around holding women’s handbags.
One of them walked up and asked how much I got per day. I said Excuse me. He clarified — he thought I was an assistant or driver for some actress, the kind who fetch food and drinks and wait outside.
Another guy said he got eight hundred. The third one said a thousand. I told them I was there with a friend. They laughed and said Don’t pretend.
Sheryl came walking fast, calling my name. I gave the guys a straight face and went inside with her. They looked properly jealous. After the formalities, we parked my car inside the premises.
It was my first time watching any shoot. Actual filming hadn’t started — just script reading. We sat in a corner of the hall. She leaned close and whispered running commentary on what was happening. That’s how I learned that when she submits a story, it isn’t final.
Two other guys take it and turn it into a screenplay and dialogue. Both have to work together. New information for me, and I actually found it interesting.
While all that was going on, every time she leaned in to whisper, her breasts pressed against my arm. Soft and warm, but deliberate or accidental, I couldn’t tell. I was hard the whole time. A couple of hours later, the reading finished, and we left.
We kept meeting like that three times a week. One day, the actual shoot had begun when we sat as spectators in the same hall where they built the set. The director called her over to advise the actors.
Sheryl: Pratty, I’ll be back soon. Want me to ask someone to get you snacks or drinks?
Me: No, I’m good.
Sheryl: Okay. Just stay here.
Courteous and caring in that quiet way she had. She was on the stage area for more than an hour. Came back looking exhausted, shoulders a little lower than usual.
Sheryl: That’s it from me with these guys today. But I have some work. Come with me to my cabin.
Me: You have your own cabin? That’s great.
We walked out of the hall. Her cabin looked like a school principal’s office. Golden embossing on the door said Writer’s Cabin. A printed paper with her name stuck below it.
Inside, there was a desk, a high-back office chair, books, and pens scattered on the table. Two ordinary chairs opposite for visitors. A leather couch that could take four people or let one person lie down properly.
Looked expensive and slightly out of place in an office building. Maybe that was for some casting couch. No idea.
Me: Nice cabin you’ve got, Sheryl.
Sheryl: Not as nice as the royalties on this contract. Everything in showbiz is contractual.
She closed the door. Didn’t lock it, though. Turned the AC up, told me to sit. She sat too. Offered food or drinks. I said no. Offered beer. I don’t drink. Tea or coffee. Still said no. She ordered a beer for herself anyway through the intercom. A guy appeared in five minutes with the can, noticed she had a guest, smiled, left.
Sheryl: Feels like I’ve moved rocks with that discussion outside. Those spotlights actually get hot when you’re under them.
Me: I can’t even imagine what live theatre actors go through. We sit in the dark with AC in the auditorium while they perform under all that spotlight heat on stage.
Sheryl: I know, right? (voice lower now, almost hesitant) But Pratty, I’m exhausted after that. Need some release. Wanted to know if you can give it to me now.
Sweet balls burst in my head. But you know how I operate. I like building it for the other person, letting them say the words themselves.
Me: I don’t get it, Sheryl
Sheryl: It’s fine if you want to say no. Your decision.
Me: Tell me clearly what you want. We can work it out. No need to hesitate. I’m there for you.
Sheryl: Nothing complicated. Mentally drained from the set. I’ve read your PPT to pussy worship story. Wanted to know if you can give me the same treatment now. It would feel great.
Me: Someone might walk in.
Sheryl: They knock. And exactly like in your story — you can sit under the table and do it while I work and drink my beer. I’m clean down there. You won’t feel gross. But you can still say no, and I’ll respect it.
Me: I’ll go for it.
The look on her face was something else — pure, almost relieved joy. She positioned me under the desk.
Sheryl: It’s a crammed space, right? Under the table?
Me: Yes.
Sheryl: I hope you’re not feeling claustrophobic or uneasy.
Me: No. It’s fine.
There was a plank behind me so the visitor chairs stayed separate. She took off her jeans, folded them, and kept them carefully in the drawer.
She ordered me to pull her panties down to her ankles. She said my touch on her legs felt electric.
I started slow. I just had enough room. Her thighs were soft and warm against my cheeks. I kissed the inside, then ran my tongue along the smooth skin until I reached the real target.
At first she stayed almost still, scrolling something on the laptop, sipping the beer like nothing unusual was happening under her desk.
I licked slowly, long strokes from bottom to top, then circled the clit. She moved once, then again. It continued with occasional gasps from her end. When I finally closed my lips around the clit and sucked gently, she let out a soft moan.
Sheryl: This is awesome. This is going well.
I could taste her clean, slightly tangy, getting wetter by every minute. My hands held her thighs. Every time I pressed harder against the spot that made her breath irregular. She would push down a little more against my mouth.
I was thanking every God there was no CCTV in that room. Footage of this would have been circulating as porn by evening, and her job would have been finished. Still, this was the first time I was properly enjoying her; she was enjoying it too, and that was enough. Then the comedy hit.
Two women from the same production knocked and walked straight in before she could say come in. Sheryl slapped the top of my head hard, tried to push me away with both hands. I didn’t stop. I was also an opportunist. My tongue was still moving, slower now but deliberate.
They started talking about something work-related: schedules, a scene that needed rewriting. Sheryl was controlling her moans, breathing getting uneven, one hand gripping the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles went white.
One of them got some water and put the glass on the table right above my head. Sheryl sipped beer instead. I chose that exact moment to push my tongue harder, flattening it against her clit and rubbing in tight circles.
She spat the beer out with a moan she couldn’t hide. The sound was half cough, half something else.
The same woman said: Sheryl, it seems you’re having dangerous cramps in your feet, maybe, and need help.
Sheryl: I’m just not feeling well at the moment. (Moaned once) Maybe we’ll catch up later.
Her voice was tight. The two women finally left, still looking concerned.
The second the door closed, Sheryl slapped the back of my head, moaned again, then locked her thighs around my head and pulled me in harder.
Felt like a female domination thing for a second, but it wasn’t. She said she was properly pissed I hadn’t stopped when the women came in, and now she just wanted me to finish it properly. Her hands were in my hair, holding me exactly where she needed.
I kept going. My tongue just hadn’t accepted defeat as of yet, sucking, licking, pressing. Don’t know how long it could’ve been; time under a desk is hard to measure. She came hard. Her bitter, tangy juices shot out like a fountain. It wet my face, filled my mouth, soaked the front of my t-shirt.
I swallowed most of it the way I always do, the rest running down my chest. She kept trembling for a few seconds, thighs still clamped, breath coming in short bursts.
She stroked my hair, thanked me in a soft voice, then saw the mess on my face and clothes and started laughing. Cleaned me with wet wipes she pulled from a drawer. Another small intimate moment. Her hands were gentle on my face while she was still half-naked under the desk.
Sheryl: What happened to the… The thing I let out?
Me: I drank most of it.
Sheryl: I liked that. But I didn’t deserve this kind of treatment so soon. Was it gross?
Me: Given the kind of maniac I am, it only made this more arousing.
We both laughed like idiots. It was the kind of laughter that keeps restarting every time you look at each other.
Sheryl: You might not be having good taste in your mouth. Why don’t you use what’s left of my beer as mouthwash?
Me: No. I don’t like it.
Sheryl: It’s still not as bad as what I released in your mouth.
We laughed again. I used it, the beer tasting weird after everything else. With my mouth full, I rinsed my mouth. I asked her with signs if I could spit somewhere.
Sheryl: I thought you would drink that too.
I gave her the look. She laughed again and pointed to the small bucket under the leaking water dispenser. I spat there. More laughing, the kind that made our stomach hurt.
Sheryl: When the two women walked in, I was afraid they’d come around the desk and see that I was bottomless.
We laughed until our stomachs actually cramped. She leaned on me, hands roaming over my shoulders and chest, both of us still letting out short bursts of laughter every few seconds the way people do after a really good joke that refuses to die.
We were ready to leave when her WhatsApp buzzed. It was an audio file in the production group chat. One of the happy scenes needed a song for which she’d penned the lyrics. Some band had composed the music. Now she tried singing it over the track.
Her voice was genuinely good. The tune stayed in both our heads the entire drive while I dropped her home. We hummed it, even danced a bit in the car — not together, just each of us moving to the beat, smiling like fools. Properly enjoyed it!
I left her under her building. She gave me the same signature hug with tight squeeze, eyes closed, long exhale, two pats from her, two from me, my hands brushing the bra straps again through her clothes.
This time she added a short, slightly wet peck right under my ear. Just a peck, nothing more, but it was enough to make me hard instantly. She thanked me for everything and went inside.
I rode home with the whole evening still running in my head — the taste of her pussy, the slap on the back of my head that felt like female domination. The way she laughed until she couldn’t breathe, that wet little peck under the ear.
But there was one clear thought sitting right in my head. Next time I needed a proper plan to get into her pants for real.
That’s it for this chapter. Hope you’ve liked it. Next one coming soon. Contact me at [email protected] to let me know your views. Until then, stay horny!
Author of this story wrote it for you for free. The least you can do is to let him know your feedback in the comments below.