Desi Sex Stories I still can’t believe I fell for it. I’m the guy who lectures my juniors on professional networking because I feel network translates to your net worth. I got played by a LinkedIn connection, rendering me like a complete clown!
Pull up a chair, some snacks, and maybe lube. This is the story of how a simple referral request turned into the most expensive, absurd, and educational mid-life crisis of my life!
Spoiler alert! I survived, my bank balance didn’t, and my dignity is still undergoing therapy.
It started innocently enough. A certain Neha messaged me on LinkedIn one random Tuesday.
Neha: Hi Pratty! Saw your profile. Really admire your work in the domain. Could you please refer me for an open position at your company? I’m a fresher but a fast learner.
I did the decent thing. Referred her. She even got called for the interview. She didn’t get the job. A rejection email landed soon after her interview, and suddenly my phone started ringing every evening like I was her personal career helpline.
Neha: Pratty, can you explain this consulting framework again? The online notes are very confusing.
We’d talk for one hour per week. Then two. Then daily. She had some genuinely sharp and intelligent questions. I sent her reference PDFs I’d kept with me over the years. She’d challenge them.
Neha: This approach assumes the user is rational. Have you met users? They’re not rational. They’re chaos in human form. Perhaps this directly translates to training adoption at their end.
Success criteria for adoption here would be that – upon system handover their queries should be mostly on system issues rather than people or processes.
Me: Fair point. You know clearly what questions to ask in a consulting project.
A few weeks later she pushed for an in-person meet.
Neha: Please, just one meeting. We can meet over coffee.
Me: No. Sorry, I’m not into real meets.
Neha: I promise I won’t bite.
I laughed.
Me: I don’t meet people alone. I meet office colleagues only, that too in a group setting.
She agreed to my boundaries. Then the next day she tried again.
Neha: Please? Just once?
I agreed. Told Anjali I had a late client call. Drove to the place she suggested, the post office. It was a pub in the 17 Plaza building in Vashi, Navi Mumbai.
Neha walked in wearing a cream coloured one-piece dress. Short, fair, black hair with a bob haircut, firm curves. She looked like she had stepped out of a royalty-free stock photo titled “Ambitious, pensive-looking fresher woman with an agenda.”
Royalty-free stock house would mean you get images for all kinds of usage. People would turn to such sites if they don’t have the budget to hire models, photographers, or graphic designers.
We sat and ordered. I went for mocktails. She ordered two fancy cocktails. At this point, I didn’t know that it would cost me more than my weekly groceries budget. That bill surely was a mistake.
Conversation flowed. Domain talk, pain points, ideation. She was better than half the people in my office meetings.
Me: You’re very sharp-minded for a fresher.
Neha: (smiling) I try to be. So, tell me about you.
Idiot that I am, I opened the floodgates. Wife is a doctor. The quiet at home, the fact that Anjali and I had entered what I dramatically called the total eclipse in the bedroom.
Complete radio silence on the physical front for months. I even mentioned the old accident that left my left leg a bit sluggish.
She nodded sympathetically, ordered another drink, then excused herself for the washroom. Thirty minutes later, she was still gone. Phone switched off. Waiter arrived with the bill: twelve thousand rupees.
I almost choked on my mojito looking at it.
Me: There has to be a mistake.
Manager now appeared with two bouncers who looked like they bench pressed motorcycles for their gym routine.
Manager: Sir, the bill is correct. Your lady ordered premium drinks and starters.
Me: But she disappeared!
Manager: Not our problem. Pay, or we help you pay by force.
I paid. Walked out lighter by twelve grand and heavier by humiliation. She wasn’t reachable for the remainder of the day.
I was a retard to try calling Neha the next day. She picked up after letting it ring for almost forever.
Me: Neha, what happened yesterday? You literally ghosted me. Is everything alright?
Neha: I had a family emergency. Had to rush.
Me: They charged me twelve grand for just 3 drinks and a single starter item.
Neha: So sorry about the bill. That’s normal at that place.
Me: Normal? Twelve thousand for two people and three drinks? Even for an upper limit, I thought this wouldn’t cross 5 grand. But 12? There’s been some mistake. They brought the bouncers on me so I couldn’t even reason!
I should have hung up at this moment. Instead I listened as she changed the topic and launched into the full soap opera mode.
She came up with a story which tried to justify her ghosting last night. For a while I thought she was confiding in me. Her husband had been unemployed for a year. In-laws remained silent on this.
Parents saying: “Leave him, come home with the baby. We’ll take care of you the rest of your lives.”
Me: his parents are fine with this? Why don’t you talk it out and convince him to get a job soon? Tell him you’re with him throughout.
She: my in-laws? They encourage him to sleep undisturbed until late mornings, keeping his ass upwards like a trophy until the sunlight falls on him. He then sits doing nothing! Because I’ll be the breadwinner. Earn for these bastards, come home and also cook food. Isn’t this too much, Pratty?
Me: Yeah. This is really too much.
She continued saying, husband apparently came home late every night smelling of cigarettes and apparently other women. She cried properly loud, messy, literally Oscar-worthy.
Neha: I want to show him I’m no less. I want to cheat on him. With you! You said there’s an eclipse in your bedroom, right? We can keep it transactional.
Transactional? The word should have set off sirens in my head. Instead, the opportunist in me sat up like a dog wagging its tail upon hearing its treat bag.
Me: There’ll be no difference between the two of you if you do that!
Neha: I don’t care. I need this. I’m doing it with you.
Me being me said yes to it. We met at a decent hotel the next evening. I arrived prepared with mouthwash, unflavoured condoms, flavored condoms, and even vibrating toys. She saw the kit and burst out laughing.
Neha: You’re so organized! But can we do it raw? I don’t want all these.
Me: No. Let’s create boundaries, okay?
Neha: But oral? You know, at the tip of your penis there are tens of thousands of nerve endings that will thank us if it’s raw.
She was speaking so much of oral being raw, I thought she was a pro. We started with oral. She held just the tip in between her lips, softly and stroked like she was trying to start a car that would refuse to move, revving up at one place instead. After two minutes, I stopped her.
Me: Stop it! That’s not how it works.
Neha: Then teach me, pratty.
I demonstrated on her middle finger, going slow, wet, deliberate. Her eyes widened.
Neha: Oh. Ohhh. Do that again!
I did. She had this newly found fetish – getting her fingers and toes sucked.
She returned the favor with surprising talent, improvising with the use of the inner side of her lower lip, sloping it all over my shaft. I finished in her mouth. She coughed and spat my cum on the floor. It was half my cum and half something else.
Then it was my turn on her fingers, then her toes. I went full devotee mode. Then the condom went on and sex happened. The moment we collapsed, I tried the classic post-sex naked cuddle. She sat up immediately. Didn’t allow the cuddling.
Neha: I need a smoke.
She lit a cigarette.
Neha: Got five grand cash? I need it for the baby.
I handed it over like the absolute genius I am. When she said baby, I felt bad, you know. We met a few more times. Always protected penetration. Unprotected oral both ways.
Once we tried 69 position and nearly fell off the bed laughing when my sluggish left leg cramped mid-action.
All the times we met, she did the same. Foreplay, oral sex both ways, then I pounded her wearing the condom, then she’d light up a cigarette and ask for money. It didn’t feel much initially, and I was getting sex, so I gave her the money.
Another time she claimed it was her birthday. I booked a place with a jacuzzi, spent a small fortune on room decoration and under-eye packs. She asked that, as a gift, she wanted to do it unprotected; I didn’t allow it.
We sat in the Jacuzzi with bubbles, applying the under-eye packs like two middle-aged people pretending we still had youthful skin. I used the toes of my right foot on her pussy underwater. She moaned.
Neha: Pratty, you said that your right leg is the only active one post that accident you had. You proved it now.
We laughed. Pleasured her with my toes until she squirted fountains into the water. She then lit a cigarette and asked for another few thousand.
By the time I added it up, I had spent around fifty thousand. Fifty Fucking Thousand! That too on a woman I met on LinkedIn who originally wanted only a job referral.
Above that, she suggested we “save money” and switch to shady places like tiny rooms meant to be an accommodation for migrant workers that Gen-Z had turned into two-hour fling factories. Plastic partitions, creaking wall fans, and beds. Just costed 600 rupees an hour.
Talk about the beds, they could barely fit one person, so she had to be on top of me. Sweet! We could actually hear the neighbors. We could hear the surrounding rooms bursting in loud orgasms.
One girl next door kept yelling, “Bhaiya, please go a little slow!” We both laughed so hard until the bed almost protested.
We pounded each other hard. Sweat poured a lot because ventilation here was a myth. Still we continued. For a few days she stopped asking for money. I stupidly thought maybe she just needed help earlier. Now it’s genuine heat.
Then one day came the phone call that changed the temperature of my entire world. She was crying again on a phone call.
Neha: Pratty, I’m HIV positive. Maybe you gave it to me.
I nearly dropped the phone.
Me: What? But we used protection!
Neha: For the main act, yes. But kissing, oral, 69 position, there’s no condom there generally. No one uses a condom. That’s where it spreads.
We argued. I was literally yelling at her. Surprisingly, she played the calm adult.
Neha: Pratty, please calm down. Fighting won’t help. Let’s get tested together again.
We went to a blood collection lab she suggested. Results came in a couple of hours: both HIV positive! I felt the floor under me disappear.
She suggested lunch to discuss further. Another five-thousand bill. This time she stayed, unlike the other time when she vanished.
I now feel some part of that bill went to her account as her earnings! Then she got totally drunk and proposed the most spectacularly dumb idea in human history.
Neha: We’re already positive. Might as well enjoy without protection. At least we can relieve the tension amongst each other.
So, we did. Back to the shady room. No condom. She gave me the best blowjob I’ve received to date. My dick spurted fountains of cum into her throat. The tens of thousands of nerve endings on the tip of my penis thanked her. It was that intense and sloppy!
Then I pounded her. She pulled me down, pressed my ass such that my dick pressed on her pussy, and she whispered: “Stay.”
In a few moments, I started rubbing my dick on her without being fully inside. She got hooked instantly.
Neha: What are you doing?
Me: Dry humping. Sorry if you feel uncomfortable.
Neha: Don’t stop. This is new to me. I love it.
That’s when she came to know she had a thing for dry humping. We made a pact: avoid our actual partners so we wouldn’t pass it on. Our combined thought now?
Keep meeting. Keep mating. Keep going!
Almost every day, squeezed between my work-from-home meetings, we had steamy, sweaty, ridiculous sex in rooms that smelled of desperation and cheap disinfectant.
There was one time when she rested the back of her neck on the edge of the bed, asked me to put in my dick until it reached the dead end and face fuck her until completion.
My dick went into her throat. It felt as if her neck showed an impression of my dick. I pounded her mouth too hard. When I came in her mouth, it overflowed with my cum. Some of it dripped from her nose. She coughed hard, and we laughed at it.
Then one day she dropped the final bomb!
Neha: I found your wife’s number online. Doctors’ numbers are easy to find. If you don’t want me sharing your HIV report with her, I need one lakh. You have one week.
No explanation. Just the demand!
I sat in my home office staring at the wall for three days. Work suffered. Sleep vanished. Finally, I did the only sensible thing left: I went to my family doctor who had treated me ever since I was a crying infant. The woman who still called me “Pratty” as if I was twelve. She is like my second mom.
Her clinic was packed with patients. When my turn came, I handed her the report.
Me: Doctor, I got involved with a girl. She says I gave her this. I don’t think I have it.
She sent the assistant out, closed the door, and looked at me with the exact expression my mother used when I had failed that maths exam in college.
Doctor: Pratty, we are family. I could slap you right now with that authority. But my patients are watching through the door.
She wrote a list of fresh blood tests.
Doctor: Don’t tell her. Do these tests again. Come to my house on Sunday with the new reports. We need to talk and resolve this.
Sunday, I arrived at her place. She made me sit on a creaky old stool in her living room. Then she slapped me too hard!
Doctor: Tell me everything!
I spilled the entire eclipse, the LinkedIn girl, the money, the fake tears, the HIV, the one-lakh demand. She listened.
Doctor: Did you get the report?
Me: Sorry ma’am, I forgot. Lots of tension these days. I’ll just get it in sometime.
Another slap! She pulled the report from an envelope, saying she knew I’d forget and so she already got it. Then she put on her reading glasses and read the report. Then kicked the stool out from under me.
I hit the floor with a loud thud that probably should get registered on the Richter scale! Yes, that was so loud. Somehow I got up.
Doctor: You’re clean. She’s a scamster. Classic honeytrap and extortion cycle. Fake positive reports from shady labs are a whole small-scale industry now.
Me: What if she calls Anjali? If she tells her everything, I’m doomed!
Doctor: Did you tell this girl your wife’s real name? Is she connected with you on any social media?
Me: No. I never told her my wife’s name. Neither did I add her on Instagram or Facebook. Only on LinkedIn, where Anjali isn’t there.
Doctor: Perfect. That means she was lying about having Anjali’s number. Nothing will happen. Just block her. Don’t you ever cheat on Anjali again. If there’s nothing physical between you both, come to my clinic; my treatment will sort your things. My gut says this Neha girl won’t push once you stop paying. These girls move on to their next bakra (scapegoat).
She pulled up an Instagram profile.
Doctor: Is this her?
Same face. Same short black hair.
Me: Yes. That’s her.
I took her phone and inspected her Instagram profile. No husband, no in-laws, no baby anywhere in the posts. Just reels, café visits, and that’s about it! Neha lied! I fell prey to her scam. But apart from me, how many other men might she have extorted money from?
I blocked every number, every ID, every possible contact that I could find and looked like hers. Two weeks of pure silence followed. No threats. No screenshots. Nothing.
I repeated the full test. I was completely, beautifully clean. The fifty thousand was gone for good. The one lakh never got paid.
Life returned to its ordinary rhythm with evening park walks with Anjali at 8:30 PM, the same quiet house, the same familiar eclipse that now felt almost comforting in its honesty.
Looking back, the whole saga was a masterclass in how greed and loneliness team up to make intelligent people stupid.
We mongers love to think we’re the hunters. We spot a woman available, someone willing, someone who seems to need exactly what we can offer, and we grab it with both hands.
Opportunity feels like power. It feels like winning. Better to take one clear step back. Recognize the red flags while the only things at stake are time and a little pride.
Once the money starts moving and the threats start flying, the only thing left to grab is the lesson, and that one, at least, is for free!
Hey guys, this was my real story from July. The basic intention was to share my learnings with you so that you stay safe. Many scams are going on these days.
Hope you’ve liked it. Until next time! Let me know your views in the comments below or hit me up at [email protected].
The end!
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.