The Door I Shouldn’t Have Opened
Copyright© 2025 by inkandmoan
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The rain wasn’t the first thing to touch her skin that night. And the storm wasn’t the only thing breaking in. Meera opened the door wearing more heat than clothes. Two strangers stood there—soaked, silent, and staring like they knew things she hadn’t confessed even to herself. One watched. The other wanted. And both stepped in like they belonged. What followed wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Intentional. Drenched in something darker than lust. A strap slipped. A gaze lingered. A breath caught. A
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/Fa Fa/ft Fa mt Mult Teenagers Consensual Hypnosis Mind Control Reluctant Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual High Fantasy Mystery Restart Cheating Slut Wife Wimp Husband Indian Male Indian Female White Couple Massage Oral Sex Safe Sex Tit-Fucking Nudism Slow
The dim yellow light flickered in the hallway as Raj stumbled in, the taste of whiskey still strong on his lips. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, breath heavy—he’d given Meera seven minutes of slow kisses, whispered filth, and clumsy touch. Then suddenly, like a puppet cut from its strings, he collapsed on the bed, snoring.
Meera sat still, flushed and throbbing. Her saree was a crumpled mess on the floor. She wore only her black lace bra—wet and sticking to her curves—and a panty rolled halfway to her knees. Her chest heaved softly, skin glistening under the faint hallway light. The rain outside battered the windows like a million tiny drummers, its rhythm wild.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell.
Panic. She scrambled. Blouse half-hooked, no petticoat, the saree quickly thrown over one shoulder—just enough to look decent. She opened the door, chest rising and falling.
A couple stood there.
Drenched. Water streaming off their bodies. Sheer white fabric stuck to their skin like second layers, revealing too much. Red underthings glowed beneath soaked cotton—bold, loud, teasing.
The woman’s eyes didn’t flinch. They locked onto Meera’s parted saree, the gap at her chest, the glimpse of the panty underneath. Lust—raw and unfiltered—glimmered in her gaze.
Meera blinked. Something stirred.
The man behind her, Aarav, scanned Meera like she was something to taste. But it was Saahiya—the woman—who leaned in slightly, like she had found a forgotten craving. Their soaked forms dripped onto the floor, but no one cared.