I’m 25, live alone in a 12 storey building in Pune, third floor. Same building for two years. Quiet, ordinary life until three months ago. She moved into 704 with her husband. Name’s Ananya. 31. Married four years. Husband works long hours in IT, often out of town. She wants to be an influencer. Not the soft lifestyle kind. The kind who posts thirst traps, body shots, “day in my life” reels that keep the comments filthy. She has 18k followers already and is hungry for more.
I first noticed her in the lift. Tight black leggings, oversized white shirt knotted at the waist, phone in hand checking angles. Dark wavy hair, sharp jaw, full mouth, heavy breasts that moved when she shifted weight. She caught me looking once, smiled like she already knew, and said, “Can you hold the door? Hands full.” After that it became regular. She’d ask me to take a photo of her in the lobby for a “casual building shoot.” Then in the parking area. Then on the terrace after sunset. Always the same easy voice: “Just a few frames, yaar. The light is perfect.”
One evening she came to my flat. “Your balcony faces west. Golden hour is better from here.” She walked in like she belonged, set her phone on a tripod, and started changing poses. Crop top, short shorts, then she pulled the top higher so underboob showed. Looked at me over her shoulder.
“Does this look natural or desperate?”
I told her the truth. It looked like she wanted someone to ruin her.
She laughed, low, and kept shooting. Later she sat on my couch, scrolled through the photos, and said her husband never looks at her like that anymore. “He likes the idea of an influencer wife. The actual sex part? Once a month if I’m lucky. And even then it’s lights off, eyes closed, three minutes.” We started talking every day. She would send me drafts of captions. Then unfiltered selfies. Then videos of her oiling her body for a “self care reel.” One night she sent a clip of her hand sliding between her legs while the camera stayed on her face. Caption: “Content research.”
I invited her over the next time her husband was in Bangalore for three days. She arrived in a thin white kurta, no bra. The outline of her nipples was clear under the fabric. She didn’t pretend it was about photos this time. She locked the door, walked straight to me, and said, “I need better material. Something real.”
I pushed her against the wall and kissed her. She moaned into my mouth like she’d been waiting. I yanked the kurta up, found bare skin, no panties either. She was already wet when my fingers slid between her folds. Thick, slick, hot. I rubbed her clit in slow circles while she ground against my hand. “Film it,” she whispered. “I want the audio at least.”
I put my phone on the table, recording. She dropped to her knees right there in the living room, pulled my cock out, and looked up at the camera while she licked the head. Slow, deliberate, tongue flat against the underside, then she took me deep until her nose pressed against my stomach. Gagging sounds, spit running down her chin, eyes watering but locked on the lens. She pulled off just long enough to say, “This is what I actually want in my reels,” then went back down, choking herself on it.
I pulled her up, bent her over the arm of the couch, and pushed inside in one slow stroke. She was tight and dripping. I fucked her hard from the start, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to rub her clit. Her tits swung freely under the open kurta. Every thrust made them bounce. She kept glancing at the phone, moaning louder for the mic. “Harder. Make it look like you’re breaking me.”
I did. Skin slapping, wet sounds, her voice cracking every time I bottomed out. She came first, legs shaking, pussy clenching in waves. I kept going. Second orgasm hit her harder; she almost collapsed. I pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the couch, threw her legs over my shoulders, and drove back in. Deeper angle. She clawed at my arms. “Come on my face,” she said when I got close. “I want it on camera.”
I pulled out, straddled her chest, and stroked. She opened her mouth, stuck her tongue out, and stared straight into the phone while I painted her tongue, lips, and cheeks. Thick ropes. She licked what she could reach, then scooped the rest with two fingers and pushed it into her pussy, pushing it deep while the camera kept rolling. We went again in the bedroom. This time she rode me, reverse, so the phone on the side table could catch everything. Her ass bouncing, my cock disappearing inside her, the wet mess we made.
She came twice more before I flipped her and fucked her face down into the mattress until I emptied inside her. After, she lay there with my cum leaking out of her, still half dressed, phone in hand reviewing the footage. Quiet for a long time. Then she smiled. “This is the best content I’ve ever shot.” She’s been back four more times since. Always when he’s out of town. Sometimes we film. Sometimes we don’t. She still posts the soft, teasing version of herself online.
The real version stays in my flat, on her knees or bent over my bed, begging for more while the building stays quiet around us. I still hear the soft knock on my door some nights and know exactly what she’s here for. That’s the confession.