New Indian Sex Stories: The Letter in the Almirah

Among all the new Indian sex stories she had ever read, Ira never expected to find the hottest one folded inside her own almirah, in her husband's handwriting, addressed to her, and never delivered. The letter was yellowed at the edges, dated eight years ago, the night before their wedding.

"My dearest Ira," it began. "Tomorrow you will be my wife, and I am terrified that you will never know how badly I want you." Ira's hands trembled. She sat down on the bedroom floor, the almirah door still open, and read on.

"I have imagined you a hundred times," Vihaan had written. "The way your saree slips off your shoulder when you reach for a book. The way you bite your lip when you are thinking. Tonight I cannot sleep, because all I can think about is tomorrow night, when I will finally touch you the way I have dreamed of touching you for two years."

Ira was thirty now, married eight years, living in a quiet Bengaluru apartment with a man who kissed her forehead every morning and fell asleep during movies. She had forgotten that Vihaan was once this man, burning, desperate, writing letters at midnight.

She heard his key in the lock. Vihaan walked in, loosened his tie, and stopped when he saw her sitting on the floor with the letter. His face went through three expressions in two seconds. "Where did you find that?"

"In the almirah. Behind your old sweaters." Ira held it up. "You never gave it to me."

Vihaan sat down beside her. He was thirty-three, with grey at his temples that had not been there at twenty-five. "I was too shy," he admitted. "It felt too raw. I thought you would think I was some kind of animal."

"Read it to me," Ira said softly. Vihaan stared at her. "What?" "Read it to me. Out loud. Every word."

He took the letter with unsteady hands. "'My dearest Ira,'" he began, his voice rough. "'Tomorrow you will be my wife, and I am terrified that you will never know how badly I want you.'" He glanced at her. She nodded for him to continue.

"'I want to take your face in my hands and kiss you until you forget your own name. I want to unhook your blouse slowly, so slowly, and look at you the way a starving man looks at food.'" Vihaan's voice had dropped lower. Ira felt heat spreading through her body.

"Keep going," she whispered. He read on. "'I want to lay you on our wedding bed and worship every inch of you. I have waited two years for this night. I do not think I will be gentle, and I hope you will forgive me for that.'"

Ira stood up and locked the bedroom door. Vihaan watched her, the letter still in his hand. "Why did you lock the door?" "Because," she said, "I want to find out if you meant it."

She walked to him and took the letter from his fingers. Then she did something she had not done in years. She unbuttoned her kurti slowly, one button at a time, holding his gaze. Vihaan's breath caught.

"Ira," he said hoarsely. "Shh," she said. "You wrote that you wanted to unhook my blouse slowly. So do it."

Vihaan stood up. His hands were shaking as he reached for her. He unhooked her blouse with the same care the letter had promised, and then he just looked at her. "God," he breathed. "You are beautiful."

He cupped her breasts through her bra, then pushed the straps down and took them in his hands. He kneaded them gently, then bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. Ira gasped and threaded her fingers through his hair.

"Like the letter said," she murmured. "Worship me." Vihaan moved to the other breast, sucking hard, his hand sliding down her stomach to the drawstring of her salwar.

He loosened it and let the salwar fall. Ira stepped out of it, standing before him in only her panties. Vihaan knelt down and pressed his face against her through the thin fabric, inhaling deeply. "I have missed this smell," he groaned.

He pulled her panties down and looked at her glistening pussy. "So wet," he said, wonder in his voice. "Already." He parted her folds with his thumbs and ran his tongue along her slit. Ira cried out and grabbed the almirah for support.

Vihaan's tongue found her clit and circled it. Ira's knees buckled. "The bed," she gasped. He lifted her effortlessly and laid her on their wedding bed, the same bed from eight years ago.

He stripped quickly, his cock hard and straining. Ira looked at it and licked her lips. "Come here," she said, and pulled him down to her. She took his cock in her hand and stroked it slowly, watching his face.

"Ira, please," he begged. She smiled and took him into her mouth. She sucked him deeply, her tongue swirling around the head, her hand working the shaft. Vihaan groaned and fisted the bedsheets.

"Enough," he said finally, pulling away. "I want to be inside you." He positioned himself between her legs and rubbed his cock against her wet entrance. Then he pushed in slowly, inch by inch.

Ira moaned as he filled her. It had been months since they had done this properly, and she had forgotten how good he felt inside her. "Harder," she demanded. "You promised you would not be gentle."

Vihaan grinned, the old fire back in his eyes, and began to thrust hard. The bed creaked under them. Ira wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. "Yes, just like that, do not stop."

He flipped her over without pulling out and took her from behind, gripping her hips. Ira pushed back against him, meeting every thrust. "Pull my hair," she ordered. He did, gently at first, then harder, and she screamed with pleasure.

Vihaan reached around and rubbed her clit in circles while he pounded into her. Ira's body tensed. "I am coming, I am coming," she screamed, and her orgasm ripped through her, her pussy clenching around his cock.

The spasms pushed Vihaan over the edge. He thrust deep one final time and came hard inside her, groaning her name. They collapsed onto the bed, tangled together, both breathing hard.

After a long silence, Ira said, "Why did you stop writing me letters like that?" Vihaan propped himself up on one elbow. "Life happened. Work, bills, your mother's health. I thought the fire just... goes."

"It does not go," Ira said. "It just needs a letter." She picked up the yellowed paper from the floor. "Write me another one. Tonight."

Vihaan laughed, a real laugh she had not heard in years. "What should it say?" Ira rolled on top of him, feeling him harden again beneath her. "It should say what you are going to do to me right now."

He reached for the notepad on the bedside table and wrote, his handwriting as urgent as it had been eight years ago: "Tonight I am going to make you scream my name until the neighbours complain." He showed it to her.

"Good start," Ira said, and lowered herself onto him. As she rode him slowly, she thought about the almirah, the letter, and the man she had married. He had been there all along, just waiting to be reminded.

Later, much later, lying in the wreckage of their bed, Vihaan said, "We should clean the almirah more often." Ira laughed until tears came. "Every week," she agreed, and pulled him down for another kiss.

Vihaan slowed his thrusts and looked into her eyes. "I love you," he said, the words rough with feeling. "I loved you when I wrote that letter, and I love you now, more, because now I know every part of you."

Ira's eyes filled with tears. "I love you too," she whispered. "Even when you fall asleep during movies." He laughed and kissed her deeply, still moving inside her, slow and deliberate now.

She ran her nails down his back, and he shuddered. "Do that again," he ordered. She did, harder, and he groaned into her mouth. Their bodies moved together in a rhythm they had perfected over eight years and forgotten for too long.

"Turn over," Vihaan said suddenly. Ira obeyed, and he entered her from behind, one hand tangled in her hair, the other sliding between her legs. "You are so wet for me," he marvelled. "Always," she admitted breathlessly.

He built her up slowly this time, teasing her to the edge and backing off, until she was begging. "Please, Vihaan, please, I cannot take it anymore." Only then did he let her fall, and her climax shook the bed.

He followed her seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling inside her with a shout. They lay still for a long time, his weight a comfort on her back, his heartbeat loud against her skin.