Hi, I'm Sarika. I'm 43 years old, married for 22 years, and the mother of a 21-year-old daughter. My husband Sarthak and I have built a life that looks perfect from the outside.

We live in a modest two-bedroom apartment in Mumbai where I spend my days cooking, cleaning, and making sure everything runs smoothly.

Sarthak works long hours at his accounting firm, and our daughter is away at college most of the year. On paper, I'm the ideal Indian wife—devoted, respectful, and always putting my family's needs before my own.

My body is the kind that draws second glances even at my age. I have full, heavy breasts that strain against the fabric of my blouses, and a wide, round ass that sways when I walk. My skin is fair and smooth, the kind people compliment as "gori" during family gatherings.

I always wear traditional sarees—deep maroon, forest green, or royal blue silk that drapes over my curves without being flashy. The pallu stays pinned neatly over my chest, and my blouse necklines remain modest. People call me sanskari, the perfect bahu who never raises her voice or steps out of line. My neighbors praise me for mt cheerful smile.

But deep inside me lives a hunger I never speak about. I have allways been a fan of reading and watching smuts and adult stories. Years ago I discovered the CNC category while scrolling through adult videos late at night.

CNC stands for Consensual Non-Consent—two adults agreeing beforehand that one will pretend to take the other by force. The parts that make my body throb are the struggle, the rough handling, the filthy words, and the complete loss of control.

I watch women being grabbed, pinned, and used while they cry out and fight back, knowing the whole scene is planned. The idea of being overpowered, degraded, and taken without being able to stop it makes my pussy clench and drip. For years I have locked myself in the bathroom or waited until Sarthak falls asleep, then touched myself to those videos.

I rub my swollen clit in tight circles, shove two fingers inside my wet cunt, and bite my lip to stay quiet while imagining a stranger forcing me down and using me.

I never acted on it. I stayed loyal to Sarthak even though our sex had become quick and routine. I love my life as a normal housewife and mother, so I kept the fantasy locked inside my head and my fingers between my legs.

One quiet afternoon while the house was empty, I opened my laptop to explore my fantasy again. I typed "CNC India" into the search bar and landed on Reddit. I had never used the platform before, but the subreddit CNC India looked exactly like what I needed.

I created an account using my real first name—Sarika—and started reading the posts. Men described grabbing women on trains, forcing them into stairwells, and calling them degrading names while they fucked them. My face grew hot and my nipples tightened under my blouse.

I commented on a post saying I wished someone would do that to me. Within minutes my inbox flooded with messages. Most were crude and short, but one stood out.

"What if I found you in real life?"

My heart pounded so hard I could hear it. I clicked on his profile—AnonymousCNC—and replied. We started chatting.

He asked what I was wearing. I told him a green silk saree with a low-cut blouse. He wrote back that he would rip the pallu off, yank my blouse down, and slap my tits until they turned red.

My hand slipped under the pallu and between my thighs without me realizing. My fingers found my soaked panties and pushed them aside. I rubbed my clit while reading his next message: he would bend me over the kitchen counter, spit on my asshole, and fuck my cunt raw while I begged him to stop.

I typed with one hand, telling him I would fight, that I would scream, that my husband could walk in any second.

He answered that he would cover my mouth, call me a filthy married whore, and pound me harder. My fingers moved faster, two of them sliding into my dripping pussy while my thumb worked my clit.

He described choking me lightly, pulling my hair, and forcing me to say I wanted it even though I didn't. My thighs trembled. I came hard, biting my wrist to stay quiet as my cunt pulsed around my fingers and wetness ran down my inner thighs.

We kept going. He told me he would fuck my ass next, make me lick his cock clean, then cum on my face and make me walk back to my husband with his load still on my skin.

I came again, harder, my body shaking while I typed one-handed that I was his to use. When the chat finally ended I sat there flushed, breathing fast, my saree damp between my legs.

I cleaned myself up, deleted the chat history, and went back to folding laundry like nothing had happened.

Life returned to its usual rhythm. I cooked, prayed, and smiled at neighbors. A few days later I went to the market for vegetables and caught the evening bus home.

The vehicle was packed. Bodies pressed against me from every side. I held the overhead rail with one hand, my shopping bag in the other.

Suddenly I felt a palm cup my ass through the thin silk of my saree. I stiffened, thinking it was an accident.

The hand squeezed, fingers digging into my flesh. My face burned. I tried to shift away but the crowd kept me pinned. The hand grew bolder, sliding lower to the cleft between my cheeks and pressing hard.

My pussy betrayed me by growing wet again. I knew I should do something, scream, slap the person, but my body stayed frozen while my mind raced with the fantasy I had only ever touched myself to.

The hand grew rougher, pinching and spreading my ass cheeks through the fabric. I raised my free hand, ready to swing and slap him, when warm breath touched my ear.

"Thought I'd never find you, Sarika."

My blood ran cold. How did he know my name? Was this someone from the building? No one I knew would dare. The voice came again, low and certain.

"I told you I would find you in real life."

Everything clicked into place. The same filthy words, the same promise. It was him—the man from the subreddit.

My legs went weak. The hand on my ass moved between my thighs from behind, pressing against my soaked panties through the saree. I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

The bus moved forward and his fingers rubbed my clit in slow circles while his other hand gripped my hip to keep me still.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was terrified, aroused, and completely at his mercy in a crowded public space with no way to escape. What would happen now?