Stories (82)
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Bound by Sir. Content Warning.
I never thought I’d end up here, bent over Professor Kane’s antique oak desk in his private study, my wrists bound behind my back with his silk tie and my skirt hiked up around my waist. My name is Lila, and I’m a twenty-year-old English major who used to sit in the third row of his Victorian Literature seminar, taking notes like a good girl while secretly wondering what those strong, veined hands looked like wrapped around something other than a fountain pen.
By Chahat Kaurabout 15 hours ago in Filthy
OMG, How Did I End Up There?. Content Warning.
I never thought I’d write this down, but after what happened last night, I can’t keep it inside anymore. My name’s Jess, I’m 24, and I live in this cramped two-bedroom apartment with my stepdad, Mark. He’s 48, built like a guy who still works construction even though he runs his own small contracting business now. Mom left when I was 17, and it’s just been us ever since. People always said we were too close, but they didn’t know the half of it.
By Chahat Kaur5 days ago in Filthy
Stranger In The Rain. Content Warning.
I never planned for it to happen. Not like that. Not with a complete stranger whose name I still don’t know. My name is Lila. I’m twenty-three, a freelance graphic designer who works from coffee shops and the tiny studio apartment I rent in downtown Seattle. That Friday night I’d been out with friends at a rooftop bar in Capitol Hill—laughing too loud, drinking tequila sunrises that tasted like summer and bad decisions. Around eleven the rain started, the kind that comes down in sheets and turns the city into a neon blur. Everyone else called Ubers and scattered. I stayed a little longer, chasing the buzz, until the bar kicked us out at closing.
By Chahat Kaur5 days ago in Filthy
The Overnight Bus Where a Random Man Explored Every Inch of Me in the Back Seat (True Story). Content Warning.
Hi… it’s me, Lila. Twenty-five, sitting here in my little apartment with the rain tapping the window, thighs pressed together just thinking about it. This is what really happened on that long, sweaty overnight bus from Toronto to Montreal last summer. I never thought I’d do this. But my body betrayed me the second the engine started rumbling, and I couldn’t stop it if I tried.
By Chahat Kaur10 days ago in Fiction
A Secret. Content Warning.
I still remember that night because nothing dramatic happened at first. That’s the part people never understand about desire. It doesn’t always arrive like thunder. Sometimes it comes quietly. In steam. In half-finished sentences. In the way someone looks at you for two seconds too long and then pretends they weren’t looking at all.
By Chahat Kaur14 days ago in Confessions
Humiliation Made Me Submissive . Content Warning.
October 28th (Later) The party was a dying animal. Its pulse, the music, had slowed to a thrumming, melancholic love song from a decade ago. The roar of a hundred conversations had dwindled to the low murmur of the last few stragglers, the clinking of bottles collected by the help, the weary groans of furniture being shifted. The air in the main hall was stale, a graveyard of spilled drinks, shattered papadum, and exhausted perfume.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Filthy
Meeting My Ex At A Party. Content Warning.
The Balcony October 28th I saw him across a sea of familiar-unfamiliar faces, and for a second, the last five years didn't just vanish; they were violently erased. The air, thick with the smell of tandoori kebabs, spilled whiskey, and too much perfume, went thin. The bass of the bhangra track thumping from the speakers inside seemed to sync with a sudden, hard pulse in my throat.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Filthy
The Monsoon and the Memory. Content Warning.
July 12 A soft, percussive thud from down the street—the transformer giving up its ghost to the humidity—and suddenly, my world shrank to the four walls of my room, the only light a sickly grey bleed from the monsoon sky. The fan’s lazy whir stuttered and died, and in the silence it left behind, the rain took centre stage. It wasn't the gentle pitter-patter of romantic films; this was a full-throated roar on the terracotta tiles, a relentless, drenching downpour that turned the world outside my window into a watercolour painting left in the rain. Mumbai was drowning, and I was marooned in my third-floor apartment.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Confessions
My Bf - Small Dick. Content Warning.
October 12th I’m writing this down because if I don’t, I think my skin might just split open from the pressure of keeping it all inside. My name is Anya, I’m twenty-four, and I live in a shared apartment in a dusty, loud, beautiful corner of South Delhi. And I have a secret that is so loud, it’s a wonder the entire neighbourhood can’t hear it screaming in the silence between my heartbeats.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Filthy
