Indian Hindi Sex Stories: The Night the Office Stayed Late

His mouth was already on her throat when the old Mohit Chauhan song started playing, and Meera arched her back over the edge of his desk while his fingers pushed her skirt up exactly the way the indian hindi sex stories she had scrolled through on her phone last night had described it. "Don't stop," she gasped into his mouth, "please, Arjun, don't you dare stop." His laugh rolled through her like heat, and then the laugh changed, it became a ringtone, and the dream cracked open.

Her eyes snapped open to the ceiling fan spinning above her like it was laughing at her, and her phone screamed 8:47 from the mattress where she had dropped it at 2 a.m. She had set the alarm for seven and snoozed it at 7:09, and now the Andheri local left in thirteen minutes while her client review copy sat unfinished in her laptop.

She ran for the train with damp hair and a half buttoned shirt, and all the way to Churchgate the dream clung to her skin like humidity, his hands, that song, the way her own voice had sounded saying his name into his mouth. She told herself it was only the stories, only too little sleep, but her face burned when the woman beside her glanced over and smiled like she knew.

The office smelled of fresh paint and somebody's reheated poha when she slid in at 10:15, and there he was, Arjun Malhotra, thirty four, her boss of three months, leaning over the art director's screen with his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked up, and his eyes held hers one second too long. "Cutting it close, Meera," he said, and her name in his mouth did something stupid to her knees.

The review was at eleven, so she typed like a woman possessed, and at 10:58 she reached for her coffee and knocked the whole cup across the client deck printouts. "Shit, sorry, sorry," she babbled, and Arjun was already there with a fistful of tissues, his shoulder pressed to hers, both of them laughing too loud at nothing. In the dream, right before he had kissed her, she had spilled coffee across his desk. Her hands went cold.

The review went fine and the client loved the tagline, but all afternoon the mirrors kept coming. At lunch the pantry speaker played the same Mohit Chauhan song from the dream, and she nearly dropped her tiffin box. During the four o'clock status call Arjun caught her staring and mouthed "you okay" across the table, and she nodded too fast and knocked her water bottle onto her own notes.

At six the brief changed, the client wanted the full campaign deck by nine tomorrow morning instead of Friday, and Arjun's jaw tightened the way it had in her dream right before he decided something. "Volunteers to stay late?" he asked the room, and nobody moved while Meera's heart hammered against her ribs and her hand went up, and his eyebrows lifted, surprised and something else, something that made her stomach drop in the most pleasant way.

By nine the office was a ghost floor, just the hum of the air conditioning and the orange glow of the city through the glass walls. They worked in the conference room with the door open and papers spread everywhere, and every time he leaned over her laptop his shirt brushed her shoulder and she forgot how to spell. "This line here," he said, his voice lower than it had been all day, "read it out to me."

She read it, and the tagline was about wanting something so badly that it hurts, and the silence afterwards was so thick she could hear the traffic fourteen floors below. He turned his chair slowly toward her. The pantry speaker, unasked by anyone, started playing that song again, and they both laughed, nervous and disbelieving. "Okay," he said, "this is getting properly weird."

"It's not weird," she heard herself say, and she stood up before her courage could file a complaint. She walked around the table while his eyes tracked her, dark and wide in the low light, and stopped between his knees with her hands on the arms of his chair. "I dreamed about you last night," she whispered, "the whole day has been the dream, and in the dream, I did this." She leaned down and kissed him.

For a heartbeat he went completely still, and then his hands came up to frame her face and he kissed her back like a man who had been waiting all day for permission. His mouth was hot and certain, and when his tongue slid against hers she made a sound she had never made in her life, then she climbed into his lap sideways with her skirt riding up while the chair creaked under them. "Meera," he breathed against her lips, "are you sure, because if we start I don't think I can," and she cut him off with her mouth. "Don't talk," she whispered, "you talked all day."

She unbuttoned his shirt with shaking fingers while he fumbled with the tiny buttons of her blouse, and then her bra was on the conference table next to the campaign deck and his mouth was on her breast. He sucked her nipple hard while she gasped and arched with her fingers dug into his hair, then moved to the other breast with his hand sliding up her thigh under her skirt to find her panties already soaked through. He groaned at the wetness and asked her hoarsely how long it had been like this, and she whispered since the dream, and he pushed the damp cotton aside and slid two fingers inside her while her whole body clenched around him.

She was so wet that his fingers moved easily, curling exactly where she needed, while his thumb pressed her clit in slow circles, and she rode his hand right there in the conference room with her head thrown back. "Don't stop, don't stop," she chanted, the dream's words in her real mouth now, and when she came it tore through her in waves, her thighs shaking around his wrist. Before she had even stopped trembling she slid off his lap to her knees between his legs and unzipped his trousers. His lund sprang free, thick and hard and leaking at the tip, and she took him into her mouth without hesitation.

She sucked him deep, hollowing her cheeks with her tongue swirling around the head, while his hands gripped the chair arms and he groaned her name. She looked up at him through her lashes and took him deeper until he throbbed against her throat, working him with her mouth and one hand, fast and wet, until his thighs tensed and he pulled her off with a ragged breath. "Not like this," he said, "not the first time, I want to be inside you."

He led her to the low couch in the client lounge, half undressed and laughing breathlessly, and laid her back against the cushions. He stripped off her skirt and panties in one motion and just looked at her, naked and spread under the city lights, and the hunger in his face made her squeeze her thighs together. "You're staring," she whispered, and he told her to give him a minute because he had been imagining this since the pantry, then he was on her with his lund nudging at her entrance, and he pushed inside her in one slow thrust that made them both cry out.

He filled her completely, stretching her, and for a moment they just stayed like that, joined, breathing into each other's mouths. Then he started to move, deep and unhurried, and every stroke dragged against exactly the right spot inside her while she wrapped her legs around his waist and met him thrust for thrust with her nails raking down his back. "Harder," she demanded, and he obeyed, the couch thumping softly against the glass wall, his mouth on her neck, her breasts bouncing between them, while she felt the next climax building, bigger this time, coiling low and tight.

"Turn over," he growled suddenly, pulling out, and she flipped onto her hands and knees without thinking, presenting herself to him. He grabbed her hips and drove back into her chut from behind, deeper than before, and she screamed into the cushion. He fucked her hard like that, one hand tangled in her hair, the other reaching around to rub her clit, and she shattered around him, sobbing his name into the leather. He kept thrusting through her climax, faster and rougher, and with a final deep groan he pulled out and spent himself across her back in hot spurts, both of them shaking.

They lay tangled on the narrow couch, sticky and panting, while he laughed softly into her hair and asked whether they got fired in her dream. She snorted and said that in her dream the deck got finished, and when he reached for his trousers she caught his wrist. "The night's not over," she said, and stood up naked and walked to the glass wall overlooking the sea of Mumbai lights, then pressed her palms to the cool glass and looked back at him over her shoulder. "Come here."

He came, already hard again, and pressed his chest to her back, his lund sliding between her thighs from behind. He bent her forward slightly and entered her in one smooth push, and she moaned at the stretch, her breath fogging the glass. He fucked her slowly against the window, fourteen floors above the city, one hand cupping her breast and pinching her nipple, the other between her legs circling her clit. "Anyone looks up," he murmured against her ear, "and they see you like this, mine," and the filthy thrill of it sent her spiraling.

She pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, and her third climax hit her like a wave breaking, her whole body convulsing around him as she cried out into the glass. He felt her clench and lost control, pounding into her with short desperate strokes, and then he was coming too, deep inside her, groaning her name into her neck as they both shuddered to stillness. For a long moment neither of them moved, joined and sweating against the cool glass, the city glittering below like it was applauding.

Finally he eased out of her and turned her gently to face him, and they stood there naked in the empty office, grinning like idiots. "So," he said, tucking her damp hair behind her ear, "same dream tomorrow night?" She laughed and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Tomorrow night," she said, "you're buying dinner first."