Desi Sex Stories Previous Part: When My Abstinence Failed Hard – Part 1
So we had one properly unhinged round, collapsed like two people who had just completed a horny Ironman triathlon and woke up to survey the crime scene.
Clothes everywhere, pillows that had seen filthy things, and that rolled-up newspaper still lying there like a sword we used for all the fun.
Chapter 2: Our Actions Lead us to Unwanted Fruits!
We laughed at the mess. Freshened up, cleaned everything, and then the hunger hit. Not the raunchy and sexy kind we’d always have. Mountain-eating, soul-selling one, rather the kind of “I would commit crimes for food” type of hunger.
Seema announced a movie night. Living room setup: mattress in the center, backs rested against the couch, dim lights, full-on romantic vibes.
She ordered the largest, cheesiest, most aggressively loaded pizza known to mankind from some nearby place that called itself ‘Pizza Singh ‘; it’s a newly opened franchise. They have these weird names in the Delhi NCR region.
Some thriller movie was playing on the TV. Don’t ask me the plot, nor the name of the movie, since I was lost in Seema resting her head on my lap.
We started feeding each other pizza. First with hands. Then with mouths. This led to the kind of eye contact that makes you forget there’s a serial killer on the screen stabbing people.
We got so charged up that the movie became an ordinary background noise. She gave me a handjob that deserves its own new story if I could write.
Slow, deliberate, sliding just the tip of my dick, sliding between her fingers like she was inventing a new form of sex related torture. Then she sang, completely straight-faced:
“The spaces between my fingers are right where your dick fits so perfectly…”
We lost it laughing, me giving sexual moans in between. She stroked me through the laughter until I finished, still half-chuckling, half-dying.
After that we just sat there, taking turns resting on each other’s laps, watching the rest of the film like two people who had just committed a cardinal sin and were now pretending to be pure souls.
When the credits rolled, we went to the bedroom. She demanded another round before we even got in bed. This was also as intense as the previous one. I kept her legs on my shoulders and pounded her hard until I came thick inside her. Then we passed out.
Morning arrived for us sometime only after noon. I woke up to the familiar sensation of Seema using me as her personal mattress.
Both of us naked. Skin to skin. That electric contact I already knew I was going to miss once this weekend ended. She was drooling on my chest again, which I had started treating like a compliment.
She got up, tried to lean up for a morning fresh kiss, which is our usual thing, and that’s when the real horror began. We were stuck! Trust me, guys, this was for real, not in a figurative sense!
We were super-glued by some unholy mixture of our dried ejaculated fluids. Belly to belly, parts of the crotch area, everything fused as we had accidentally invented a new medical condition.
We tried peeling apart. A tiny bit of skin peeling happened, but it gave us a couple of small cuts and some bleeding. Seema’s eyes went wide with pure panic.
Seema: Pratty, are we going to have to go to a doctor like this? Like in this position? I’ll die of embarrassment before the doctor even examines us.
My engineer brain activated. I told her my diagnosis: a nasty mix of our combined juices had turned into an industrial adhesive-like substance. The only cure I feel is water. Lots of it. An option worth considering was standing under a warm running shower, together.
She suggested dry-humping our way out of it. Ejaculate, create wetness, separate. Thank god I wasn’t actually inside her. Just surface-level stuck. So we did.
Thirty minutes of sweaty, determined, slightly desperate dry-humping while she moaned things like “please work please work please work.” We both finished. Sweat everywhere.
That cherry scent of hers kicked in again. The wetness helped, but a little. We managed a small separation and a small cut that bled just enough to make her panic harder.
Me: Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.
I tried to get up holding her. She resisted at first.
Seema: We might trip. Break a bone. Reach the hospital looking like a weird sex accident. People will laugh at us!
I persuaded her. Held her carefully. She clung to me with her eyes shut like we were balancing and walking on a rope over a volcano.
We slowly walked into the bathroom and stood under the shower. It felt like a slow three-legged race. Within seconds, the water did its job. The sticky surface dissolved.
We separated with matching sighs of pure relief that sounded like we had just escaped some prison. Seema, of course, recovered earlier than me.
Seema: I could’ve just pissed on you on the bed. Why didn’t that strike me? Would’ve been better.
Me: That sounds gross. And the cleaning effort after that?
Seema: Totally worth it. But hey, this is making me horny. I want to try some piss-related stuff. I’m holding mine. You go first.
I resisted at first, and then I gave up, because arguing with Seema when she has an idea is like arguing with a wall. She lay down under the shower and told me to aim for her face.
I warned her it would feel gross. She said Do it anyway. I did. Two seconds later, her face looked like she wanted to file a police complaint with the universe that forgot to question this decision of hers. She boldly grabbed my penis to adjust the piss trajectory to her chest. She exhaled hard.
Seema: How do they do this in porn? My face feels gross. Tits feel sexy though with your golden shower.
We switched. She had been holding it since the past night. Squatted partially, legs spread, and pissed on my chest and stomach. Mid-stream, she got another idea.
Seema: Quick. Get the wine bottle and a glass bowl from the kitchen platform.
I ran. Returned with both. Residual piss drops fell into the bowl. She poured wine slowly over her pussy while fingering, ordering me to hold the bowl.
Within minutes she was squirting into it, mixing everything — residual morning pee, fresh squirt, wine, the whole unholy cocktail that had traveled across her body before landing in the bowl.
Seema: You have to drink this.
Me: No way.
Seema: Don’t worry, baby. I’ll help.
We ended up sipping from opposite sides of the same bowl. I braced for pure bitterness. It was more tangy than bitter. Strangely intimate. Strangely arousing. I told her maybe I could get addicted to this if she kept serving it this way. We both laughed like the fucking imbeciles we were.
She cleaned herself with the jet spray. We got dressed and sat talking like nothing unusual had just happened.
I told her I needed to take the next available flight. She hesitated, then agreed. Every flight was booked except one at 11 pm that was filling fast. I booked it immediately. Then her emotions hit.
Seema: I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering if that last time was actually the last time we fucked without even knowing it was the last time.
It sounded funny to me. She was serious. So of course I folded again.
Me: Just one round.
We did two. In two hours. With a small gap that barely qualified as recovery. I came hard both times. The second time her pussy held everything. Her pussy lips stayed separated by a bit, full of cum till the top; it was slowly leaking.
After the first round, I told her my dick was threatening to file a police complaint. After the second, I said it needed life support. She laughed until she cried a little.
Hunger returned as if it was taking revenge now. It had to, as when we were having our sexy time, we forgot all our thirst and hunger. She opened a food app, looked at me with those brownish-grey eyes sparkling, and said one word:
Seema: Biryani?
Me: Yes. Obviously yes!
Spicy chicken biryani arrived in 30 min. We attacked it like starving animals. First spoon was so spicy, it gave me hiccups. She laughed and said my spice meter was very low. The way she said it made it clear she wasn’t only talking about food. She taunted me about something else too.
Right after that, we went to the bedroom, pulled the curtains, turned the AC on, got under the blankets fully clothed this time, and passed out snoring like a usual couple who has proper weekend afternoon sleep after a very heavy lunch.
I woke at 7 pm in pure panic, thinking I’d missed the flight. She was irritated in the best way.
Seema: Flight time is 11 PM. Airport is just twenty minutes away. Relax. I’ll make you reach there before the gate closes for your flight.
We got ready for what felt like a last dinner date. She wore a sexy black one-piece. We talked about surviving new workplaces. Wished that our paths would cross and we would meet as colleagues again. She corrected me when I said “colleagues.”
Seema: Work wife! (she winked)
She dropped me at the airport entry. Those thirty seconds in the lift from parking to the gate were silent. We were looking at each other.
Near the gate we hugged. She got on her toes to kiss me. Height difference defeated her again. She settled for a warm peck on the chin.
Public displays of affection are still looked down upon here, and both of us were too aware of it. The urge was there. Otherwise, we would’ve passionately kissed in front of everyone!
She stood outside until I showed my boarding pass at the entry and walked through the automatic doors. I turned back. We waved at each other a last time. Then she used her handkerchief to wipe her nose. She was crying! She turned and walked away with what felt like slow and heavy steps.
For people around who might’ve seen us, it looked exactly like two people who had to part ways because of career and life decisions. I came home carrying a head full of wet, ridiculous, sticky memories.
On the evening of the 3rd of July, I was with Anjali closing the shutter of her clinic when my phone rang. Unknown number. I picked up.
Seema: Madarchod, mi kay 200 madhe milnari rand vatle ka re tula? Itkyat visarshil mala? Phone ka nahi kelas chutiya? (You bastard. What do you think I am, a cheap 200-rupee whore? You couldn’t even call me after that?)
Her angry marathi shivya/gaali-galoch (abusive words) felt cute in her own way.
The voice was loud enough that Anjali heard every word. Seema, thankfully, didn’t say my name. Anjali demanded an explanation. Seema had called from her new number I hadn’t saved.
I showed Anjali the unknown number and spun the only story that came to mind: online scam, yaar. Girls call, abuse, record the reaction, then blackmail for money. Anjali bought it and told me to block the number. I pretended to block it. I almost shat bricks!
Later, during our usual night walk, Anjali joined the ladies’ gang in the park. I stepped away to a distant corner and called Seema back. She started with the same abuse at first. I apologized. She calmed down. Then, in a serious voice:
Seema: There’s good news and bad news. What do you want to know first?
Me: Good one first.
Seema: I’m pregnant!
Me: Congratulations, wait, what’s the bad news?
Seema: That’s the bad news!
Me: You and Ashwin don’t want a baby now, is it?
Seema: Chutiya, tuzha aahe te! (Dimwit. It’s yours!)
The floor under me just disappeared. I asked if she’d forgotten the pill. She explained she’d had a couple of all-nighters with different guys before we met, forgotten once, nothing happened. Got periods the next time, so she assumed she was safe, expecting a miracle just like that this time again. This time the test was positive.
I blamed her for carelessness. She almost cried — the classic last weapon for any woman. I told her I’d be there if she wanted, that we could find a clinic in Gurgaon for the abortion. She shut that down immediately. She was keeping the baby. Said she would handle Ashwin. I said sorry. She said no need to apologize as we were equal partners in this mess. Then she demanded regular calls. Sometimes to talk to the unborn baby. We laughed at it.
She added, almost scientifically, that my “seed” had been consistently thick. She could feel it inside her!
That explained the super-glue incident. Then she got serious and said my seed needed research to find its true potential. I laughed. She said she wasn’t joking. Should I turn into a sperm donor? What would they call me? Pratty donor?
I blamed my abstinence and medications for the thick, efficient seed that Anjali got us into a loss by not utilizing it (she denied sex again)!
Another thing to blame was Seema’s irresponsible behavior for not having a contraceptive on time. We hung up after a long conversation.
My brain did what it always does in crisis: Overthinking absurd scenarios that would come up after this!
Just accept it; we all do this!
One: A reality show set. Seema in the middle with a sad face. Her husband Ashwin on one side, me on the other. Host builds suspense and finally says, “Ashwin… you’re not the father.” In normal shows, the non-father jumps with joy. In my version, Ashwin uses his gym arms to punch me in slow motion while Seema screams “No!” in the background.
Another: Years later, Seema teams up with the other women I’ve apparently impregnated (this would be the fifth, according to the current count in my head).
So, they all barge into my house demanding security for themselves and the kids since they got disowned by their husbands who found the truth. I’m in the center, pulling my hair. Anjali is face-palming and crying at the other end.
Blame my overthinking talent. It’s a terrible one.
Just last Tuesday, 28th July, I saw Seema’s WhatsApp status. Ashwin was back from the Gulf. Don’t know if permanently or if he was visiting.
They were at a hill station. Lots of photos. Happy couple energy. I replied asking about the place they lived. She answered that. Then added:
Seema: We’re doing great. Things are fine between Ashwin and me. We had an awesome time (wink).
The wink explained everything. They’d had sex. Soon she’d probably give him the “good news.” He’d never know the full background.
I still feel the guilt. We both cheated on him in the most permanent way possible.
Will I meet Seema again? Will she one day introduce that child to me, saying I’m their real Papa? What will any of that even look like?
I have a hundred questions in mind and zero answers. Time will decide. For the next couple of years, at least, we won’t be meeting. Obvious reasons!
I’m sitting at home along with one very large new problem growing somewhere in Gurgaon. Only time will tell how this particular chapter ends.
My brain, being the overthinker it always is, is again making scenarios like:
The next text from Seema will probably start with –
“Guess who’s having twins” or
“I told Ashwin everything. He wants to see you,” or
“I told Ashwin everything. He not only accepted things with an open mind but also wants to name the baby after you”
or, worst of all,
“Your wife Anjali just liked my pregnancy announcement post.”
I’m not ready for such things!
My dick is still on life support!
And I have a terrible feeling the next chapter involves me having a hard time explaining to my wife why my ex-colleague who moved to Gurgaon just sent me a scan of a now tiny but rapidly growing development in her womb.
That’s probably the end of a life chapter for me that I called ‘Seema’, at least for a few years from now. It actually feels so. Or is it not?
Hey guys. I hope you liked this story as well. Shower some love by commenting below or sending your views to [email protected]. A different story is coming soon. Until then, stay horny!
The end!
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