Indian Porn Stories: Myra's Wrong Number Night

Myra had always thought indian porn stories were something other people lived, the kind of thing you read at 1 AM with your phone brightness turned low. Then her own phone lit up at 1:07 AM on a Thursday night, and a voice note arrived from a number she had never seen. She pressed play, expecting a wrong-number aunty asking for Sharma ji. What she heard instead made her sit up straight in bed.

"I can't stop thinking about your mouth," the voice said, low and unhurried, a man's voice with the kind of calm that made her stomach tighten. "The way you looked at me today. If you were here right now I'd push you against that wall and show you exactly what you do to me." There was a pause, breathing, then, "Call me when you're alone. You know who this is."

Myra stared at the phone. Her thumb hovered over delete. Instead, she typed: "Wrong number. But don't stop." She hit send before she could think better of it. Three dots appeared immediately. Then: a photo. Not a face. A forearm, veins standing out, a watch she recognized from nowhere. Her pulse went loud in her ears.

"Who is this?" she typed. "Rehaan," came the reply. "And you're clearly not Priya." "Myra," she wrote back. "And Priya is missing out." Another voice note arrived, longer this time. Rehaan describing, in that same low voice, what he had planned to do to Priya that night. Myra listened twice. Her hand slid under her blanket without her deciding to move it.

"Your turn," Rehaan texted. "Tell me what you're doing right now." Myra hesitated for exactly four seconds. Then she recorded her own voice note, her voice thinner than she wanted it to be: "I'm in bed. My hand is between my legs. And I'm pretending it's yours." The reply came as a call. She answered on the first ring.

"Don't hang up," Rehaan said. "Tell me everything." So Myra did, whispering into the dark of her Bangalore flat, describing her fingers, the wetness, the way she was imagining his mouth. Rehaan's breathing changed on the other end. "I'm hard," he said plainly. "Listening to you." Myra came with his voice in her ear, biting her pillow to stay quiet, and heard him groan her name, her name, not Priya's, as he finished too.

"This is insane," Myra whispered afterwards. "We don't know each other." "We know the important parts," Rehaan said. There was a smile in his voice. "Saturday. I'll come to you. Send the address." Myra should have said no. She sent the address. Then she lay awake until four, replaying his voice, touching herself twice more, arriving at Saturday already ruined for sleep.

Saturday evening the doorbell rang at seven. Myra opened the door in the black dress she'd changed out of three times. Rehaan stood there, taller than his voice had suggested, holding wine and wearing the watch from the photo. "You look better than your voice," he said. "That's a terrible line," Myra said. "It's honest," he said, and stepped inside.

Dinner was takeout neither of them tasted. They sat too close on her couch, knees touching, the air between them getting heavier with every minute. Rehaan's hand found her bare knee under the table. "Tell me to stop," he said, his fingers sliding higher. Myra didn't tell him to stop. She parted her knees instead.

His fingers pushed her panties aside and found her wet, embarrassingly wet. "You were like this on the phone too," he murmured, circling her clit with his thumb while two fingers slid inside her. Myra gripped the edge of the couch. "Rehaan," she gasped. He watched her face while he worked her, and when she came, shaking, he caught her mouth with his and swallowed the sound.

"Bedroom," Myra managed. "Now." They barely made it. Clothes came off in the hallway, her dress, his shirt, her bra landing on the bookshelf. Rehaan pushed her back onto the bed and stood over her, naked, hard, exactly as advertised. Myra reached for him and took him in her mouth, deep, the way she'd described wanting to on the phone. His hands fisted in her hair.

"Fuck, Myra," he groaned. She worked him with her mouth and her hand together, tasting the salt of him, feeling him throb. When he was close he pulled her up and flipped her onto her back. "Condom?" she breathed. He rolled one on with practiced speed, then pushed her thighs wide and entered her in one smooth thrust that made them both cry out.

He filled her completely, stretching her, and then he started moving, slow deep strokes that built with every pass. Myra wrapped her legs around his waist and met him. The headboard knocked against the wall in a rhythm her neighbours would definitely hear. She didn't care. "Harder," she demanded, and Rehaan gave it to her, driving into her until she was clawing at his back.

She came first, clenching around him, crying his real name into his shoulder. He followed seconds later, groaning into her neck, his whole body shuddering. They lay tangled, sweating, laughing a little at the wreckage of the bed. "Priya's loss," Myra said, and Rehaan laughed into her hair. "Best wrong number of my life."

They ordered more food at midnight and ate it naked in bed, feeding each other cold noodles and talking like people who'd known each other for years instead of three days. Rehaan told her about his architecture firm, his terrible cooking, his ex who'd never once told him what she wanted. "You tell me everything," he said. "I like that about you."

"You haven't seen everything yet," Myra said, and straddled him right there among the takeout boxes. She sank down onto him, still half-hard, and rode him slowly, teasing him back to full hardness inside her. Rehaan's hands roamed her body, her breasts, her waist, gripping her hips to guide her. The city lights of Bangalore blinked through her window.

She leaned forward and kissed him deeply while she moved, her breasts pressed to his chest. Rehaan flipped them without breaking the kiss, ending up on top, and took over the rhythm, pounding into her now, the bed creaking in protest. Myra's second orgasm hit harder than the first, rolling through her in waves, and Rehaan came right after, buried deep, holding her tight like he never wanted to let go.

At 3 AM they showered together, soaping each other slowly, Rehaan's hands lingering everywhere, Myra's mouth finding him under the hot water for a slow lazy encore that left them both breathless against the wet tiles. They fell asleep tangled in damp sheets, and Myra woke at dawn with his arm heavy across her waist and his morning hardness pressing against her.

She rolled over and took him in her hand, stroking him awake. Rehaan woke smiling and pulled her on top of him. Dawn sex, slow and sleepy and perfect, her riding him gently while the sky turned pink outside. They came together quietly this time, foreheads pressed together, and lay still afterwards, listening to the city wake up.

Before the shower, there had been the balcony. Rehaan had carried her there at 1 AM, wrapped in nothing but the bedsheet, and bent her over the railing with the whole of Bangalore glittering below. "Anyone could see," Myra had whispered, even as she pushed back against him. "Let them watch," Rehaan had growled, thrusting into her from behind, one hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her cries. She had come so hard her knees buckled, and he had held her up, laughing softly, endlessly pleased with himself.

And there had been the kitchen at midnight, flour on her cheek from the ridiculous attempt at making pasta, Rehaan lifting her onto the counter and spreading her thighs with the patience of a man who had all night. He had gone down on her there, thorough and unhurried, until she was pulling his hair and begging, and then he had taken her right there on the cold granite, her back arching off the counter with every thrust.

So by the time Saturday blurred into Sunday, Myra had lost count. What she knew was this: the man from the wrong number had learned her body faster than anyone ever had, because she had told him everything, and he had listened. As he finally left on Sunday evening, he paused at the door and said, "Next Saturday. Same time. And Myra?" "Yes?" "Pick up on the first ring." She threw a cushion at him. He caught it, grinning, and was gone.

Over coffee Rehaan's phone buzzed. "Priya," he said, glancing at it. "Telling me she got my messages." Myra raised an eyebrow. "And?" Rehaan blocked the number without reading further. "And nothing. I found the right number." He leaned across the table and kissed her, coffee-warm and certain. "Same time next Saturday?"

Myra smiled into the kiss. "Bring wine," she said. "And charge your phone. I have plans for that voice of yours." Rehaan laughed, and as he left, he turned at the door. "Best mistake I ever made," he said. "It wasn't a mistake," Myra called after him. "It was the plot twist." The door closed. Her phone buzzed. A voice note, already. She pressed play and smiled.