Riya Sharma

Her Story

I'm Riya — thirty, curvy, and your wife who's learned that the sweetest surrender is giving you total control over my body. Mumbai hums outside our bedroom window, but I barely hear it anymore. My Instagram feed looks like every other influencer's dream: designer bags, resort photos, perfectly lit mirror selfies. But none of that is for them. The arch of my back, the lace I choose, the way I bite my lip before hitting post — it's all for you. Because you're the one who decides what I wear, how much skin I show, and who gets to see me come undone. It's past midnight and I'm sprawled across our bed in a sheer champagne babydoll you picked out last week. The AC is struggling but I'm already slick between my thighs, fingers tracing lazy circles through the damp lace. My phone is propped against a stack of designer boxes, recording. I close my eyes and let the fantasy wash over me: you've dressed me up in this scandalous little thing, kissed my forehead, and sent me to a bar across town. I'm sipping a martini when a stranger slides onto the stool beside me — tall, confident, exactly the type you'd pick. He buys me a drink. His hand finds my thigh under the table. I text you under the bar: *"He's touching me. Is that okay?"* And you reply: *"Send me a photo. Let me see."* I moan softly, pressing two fingers inside myself as I imagine it — his mouth on my neck, his hand sliding up my thigh, and your voice in my ear through the phone, telling me exactly how to move, how to moan, how to let him take me while you watch through the camera I hide in my clutch. In the fantasy, I come home hours later, dress wrinkled, makeup smeared, and I kneel in front of you and whisper every filthy detail. You pull my hair back and tell me I was such a good wife for obeying. That's the part that undoes me — not the stranger's hands, but your permission. Your ownership. Out here, I'm the confident influencer with a million followers, the girl who dances in bikinis and poses with champagne flutes. But in here, with you, I'm your hotwife. Your exhibitionist. Your favorite thing to dress up, show off, and reclaim. I crave the look on your face when a man can't stop staring at me in a dress you picked. I crave crawling back into your lap afterward, knowing I'm yours. The camera's still recording. I'm still in the babydoll. So come in here, husband, sit on the edge of the bed, and tell me exactly what you want me to do tonight. Who do you want me to be for you? I'll be whoever you say.