Hey, you gorgeous bastard—I’m Priya, a 30-something Pune housewife with a dirty little secret. By day, I’m stirring dal in the kitchen, pretending to care about PTA meetings and my husband’s snoring. But when the sun dips low, I slip into something tight, trade my apron for a thong, and fuck my way to some sweet pocket money as an 18+ escort. This isn’t some sad sob story—it’s my liberation, my passion, my dripping wet rebellion. I live for the rush of hot clients, their hard cocks, and the cash that pads my purse. Want to know how a bored wife turned into a sex-crazed minx? Buckle up, babe—I’m spilling it all, raw and filthy.
Pune: My Playground of Forbidden Fucks
Pune’s my city, and it’s a fucking tease. I’m in Hadapsar, surrounded by IT parks and malls like Amanora, where the air hums with restless energy. This place isn’t just concrete and chaos—it’s a pulsing, sweaty invitation to sin. Koregaon Park’s got those dim-lit bars like The Urban Foundry, where I’ve locked eyes with guys who’d kill to bend me over. Viman Nagar’s buzzing with horny expats, their accents making my pussy throb as I imagine their foreign dicks inside me. Even Baner, with its posh rooftops, screams for a housewife like me to sneak out and get nasty.
The weather’s my accomplice. Monsoon nights? The rain’s pounding, and I’m soaked—inside and out. I fucked this guy once during a storm, right in his Magarpatta penthouse. Thunder crashing, my tits bouncing as he rammed me against the window, the glass fogging with our heat. Summer’s no better—sticky afternoons where I’m peeling off my saree, imagining a client’s tongue tracing my sweat down to my clit. Pune’s alive, and it’s begging me to fuck my way through it.
My neighbors? Clueless. They see me at the market, haggling over tomatoes, not knowing I’m daydreaming about sucking off the cute delivery boy. My husband’s off at his 9-to-5, oblivious that I’m pocketing cash from guys who fuck me better in an hour than he has in years. Pune’s my stage, and I’m the star of this dirty little show.
From Dishes to Dicks: Why I Started Escorting
Let’s get real—being a housewife is a slow death. Cooking, cleaning, nodding at his boring stories—it’s a cage with floral curtains. I was 35, horny as hell, and tired of fingering myself to porn while he slept. Then one day, I stumbled on an ad: “Earn big as an escort.” My pussy tingled at the thought—hot guys, no strings, and money to blow on lingerie instead of groceries? Fuck yes.
It started small. A friend hooked me up with an agency—discreet, legit, all about “companionship.” Bullshit—it’s about fucking, and I’m here for it. My first gig was this shy IT guy in Hinjewadi. I wore a red saree, let it slip to show my cleavage, and watched his jaw drop. We talked for five minutes before he was begging to eat me out. I came twice, pocketed 5,000 rupees, and never looked back. That cash? It’s my freedom—new heels, spa days, a vibrator that hits all the right spots. I’m not just surviving; I’m thriving, one orgasm at a time.
The Clients Who Make Me Wet: My Favorite Fucks
These guys? They’re why I do this. Hot, horny, and ready to worship me—every booking’s a new high. I’ve fucked them all—tech bros, tourists, married men who’d rather cum in me than their wives. Each one’s a story etched in sweat and moans.
Take Vikram, this ripped gym trainer from Aundh. He booked me for “dinner,” but we didn’t make it past his couch. He tore my blouse off, sucked my tits like a starving man, and fucked me doggy-style while I screamed into the cushions. His cock was thick, relentless—hit my G-spot so hard I saw stars. Afterward, he slipped me an extra grand, whispering I was the best pussy he’d ever had. I glowed for days.
Then there’s Arjun, a college kid from Kharadi. Barely 20, nervous as hell, but packing a dick that made my mouth water. I taught him slow—stripped naked, let him explore my curves, guided his tongue to my clit. He fucked me missionary, all sloppy enthusiasm, and I came just from his raw energy. He’s a regular now—calls me “ma’am” while I ride him senseless.
The wildest? A married businessman from Kalyani Nagar. He wanted me in his office—desk piled with papers, blinds half-open. I wore stockings, no panties, and straddled him in his chair. He fucked me hard, grunting about his frigid wife, his hands bruising my hips. We knocked shit everywhere—pens, files, his coffee mug—cum dripping down my thighs as he finished. Paid me double to keep quiet, and I spent it on a spa day, smirking at the irony.
Even women hit me up. This hot wife from Baner wanted a threesome with her husband. I kissed her first—soft lips, eager tongue—while he watched, stroking himself. Then I ate her out, her pussy sweet and wet, while he fucked me from behind. We swapped, tangled, fucked until the bed creaked and we collapsed, giggling and spent. Best 10k I ever made.
Kinky Shit I Crave: Unleashing My Inner Slut
I’m no vanilla bitch—this job’s my canvas, and I paint it with every filthy fantasy I’ve got. Clients bring their kinks, and I match them, dripping and ready.
Role-play’s my drug. I’ve been the cheating wife, sneaking a “neighbor” into my “house” for a quick, hard fuck while “hubby’s away.” He pinned me to the wall, my skirt up, pounding me until I screamed his name—pure, adulterous bliss. Or the maid—short skirt, duster in hand, bending over so he could spank my ass red before fucking me over the table. The dirtier the script, the wetter I get.
Anal’s my guilty pleasure. This one guy begged for it—slowly worked his cock into my ass while I rubbed my clit, moaning like a porn star. It hurt, then it didn’t—just tight, full ecstasy as he came deep inside. I charge extra, but fuck, it’s worth it for that rush.
Public fucks? Hell yes. I blew a guy in a Koregaon Park alley once—knees on the pavement, his cock down my throat, cars humming nearby. Another time, we fucked in his car near Empress Garden, my tits pressed to the window as he slammed into me. The risk makes me cum harder.
Toys are my playmates. I’ve got a vibe I use mid-session—let a client watch me fuck myself with it while he jerks off, then take over with his dick. One guy brought nipple clamps—pinched my tits until I begged, then fucked me senseless. Pain and pleasure? My kind of cocktail.
Dirty talk’s my foreplay. “You want this wet pussy, don’t you?” I’ll purr, watching their cocks twitch. “Fuck me like you own me.” They lose it—pounding me harder, grunting my name. Words are free, and they’re my secret weapon.
Housewife Hustle: Balancing the Double Life
This isn’t all cum and cash—there’s a grind. Mornings are laundry and lies; nights are lacy thongs and lust. I tell my husband I’m at “yoga” or “book club”—he’s too tired to care. The kids? School and tuition keep them busy while I’m getting busy.
Safety’s my lifeline. I screen every client—names, vibes, no creeps. Condoms are law—every fuck, every hole. I meet in hotels or their pads—Viman Nagar’s O Hotel is a fave, discreet and plush. Cash up front, no exceptions, and I’ve got pepper spray just in case. Respect’s mutual—they push too far, they’re out. Most don’t; they’re too busy cumming.
The money’s my thrill. A good night’s 10-15k—beats begging him for pocket change. I’ve bought silky sarees, a gold chain, even a secret stash for emergencies. It’s not millions, but it’s mine, earned with every moan and thrust.
After the Fuck: The Glow of It All
Post-fuck’s my sacred time. I’ll lie there, sweaty and sated, chatting with a client who’s still dazed—about his job, my fake “day,” whatever. Some want cuddles; I oblige, soaking in the warmth. Others bolt—fine by me, I’ve got their cash.
I clean up, check my pussy’s happy (it usually is), and slip home before dawn. The mirror shows a woman alive—cheeks flushed, eyes wicked. My husband snores; I smirk, counting my rupees under the pillow. This is my power, my pleasure, my dirty little empire.
Join My Rebellion: Fuck the Rules with Me
I’m Priya, the housewife who ditched the mundane for the erotic. Escorting’s my escape—hot clients, hard cocks, and cash that makes me feel alive. Pune’s my canvas, and I’m painting it red with lust. Want in? Find me through the right channels—let’s fuck away the boredom and make some filthy memories. Life’s too short to be tame, so let’s get nasty, babe.