Room No. 207 – A Night She’ll Never Forget

Note: The following story is a fictional adult confession submitted anonymously. Reader discretion is advised.

It was supposed to be a regular business trip. Just a two-night stay at a mid-range hotel, some back-to-back client meetings, and a presentation the next morning. That’s what Priya told herself when she checked into Room No. 207 of the Coral Crest Hotel in Mumbai.

The room had a strange warmth—cozy but oddly seductive. The lighting was low and golden, and the curtains flowed like sheer lingerie in the air-conditioned breeze. She changed into her satin robe, letting the day melt off her shoulders, and poured herself a glass of wine from the minibar.

She hadn’t expected company. She didn’t even want it. But loneliness sometimes does strange things to the body.

Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:

"You look even better in Room 207 than you did in the lobby."

Her heart skipped a beat. She rushed to the peephole. No one.

"Who is this?" she typed back, breath shallow.

"The man who’s been watching you since you checked in. Don’t worry—I’m clean, and I know what you want."

Instead of fear, a warm pulse spread through her thighs. She bit her lip, goosebumps rising. She should have blocked the number. Instead, she replied:

"Prove it."

Five minutes later, a knock on her door.

She paused, robe tied tightly. “Who is it?”

“Room service,” said a deep voice. “Special delivery.”

Her hands trembled as she opened the door just a crack. A tall man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled, no food tray, no cart. Just him. His eyes met hers, dark and dangerous, and for some reason... she let him in.

---

What followed wasn’t normal. It was electric.

He didn't speak. He walked past her slowly, his scent—a mix of spice, leather, and heat—filling the room. She could see the outline of his toned arms, the slow breath in his chest. He turned to her and said:

“If you want me to leave, just say the word. Otherwise…”

She didn’t say anything. She simply let her robe fall.

He stepped forward, hands running along her shoulders like a sculptor admiring marble. His touch was both rough and reverent. She moaned softly as he leaned in, brushing his lips down her neck.

Their mouths collided. Tongues explored. Clothes vanished. His hands moved with confidence—caressing, gripping, teasing. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and laid her on the bed, spreading her thighs slowly, deliberately.

“God, you’re wet already,” he whispered, tracing circles with his tongue until she arched off the bed, gasping his name (though she didn’t even know it).

The way he moved—slow, powerful thrusts that drove her wild—wasn’t just sex. It was a storm of need, a release of everything she had suppressed for too long.

She scratched his back, bit his shoulder, wrapped her legs tight around him like she never wanted him to leave. His breath hot in her ear as he whispered all the filthy things he wanted to do to her. And she begged for more.

Climax hit her like a freight train—shaking, pulsing, her hands gripping the sheets. But he didn’t stop. He pinned her down and kissed her harder, driving into her again. A second orgasm. Then a third. She didn’t remember the last time she felt so… alive.

---

But then… the twist.

She woke up a few hours later. The sheets tangled. The room still smelled of him.

But he was gone.

No name. No goodbye. No number. Only a note on the pillow:

"Room 207 gave us a night we’ll both remember. But don’t try to find me."

Her phone buzzed again. A photo. Her. Naked. Asleep. Taken that night.

Another message:

"Don’t worry. I won’t share it. Unless you want me to."

Her pulse quickened. This wasn’t over. Not even close.

---

Want to know what happens next in Room No. 207? Follow for Part 2 – because some cravings never end...

This story was submitted by an anonymous reader. Want your confession featured? Email us at pvtofftale@gmail.com or DM us on Instagram at @SpicyRaaz.xyz

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