In the bustling streets of Mumbai, where the humid air carried the scent of street food and distant monsoon rains, lived Arjun, a 22-year-old engineering student with a simple life. He was straight as an arrow, spending his days buried in textbooks and his evenings playing cricket with friends.
But one petty mistake would unravel everything. It started innocently enough-a dare from his college buddies to sneak into the girls' hostel and snap a silly photo as proof. Arjun, ever the thrill-seeker, did it without thinking twice. He didn't know that Vikram, a senior from a wealthy family with a twisted sense of humor and a network of influential friends, had caught him on camera. Vikram, who ran a secret group chat with his cronies-Rohan, Sameer, and Karan-saw an opportunity for amusement. They cornered Arjun the next day in a dimly lit café, showing him the video. "One share, and your reputation is gone," Vikram sneered. "Expulsion, family shame. But obey us, and we'll delete it after one evening."
Arjun's heart pounded. It was petty, yes, but in conservative Indian society, such a stunt could ruin him. He nodded, swallowing his pride, agreeing to whatever they demanded. That evening, they dragged him to Vikram's lavish apartment in Bandra, overlooking the Arabian Sea. The room was filled with the faint aroma of incense, masking the underlying tension. "Strip," Vikram ordered, his voice cold. Arjun hesitated, but the threat of the video loomed. As he stood naked, humiliated, Rohan approached with a razor and shaving cream. "Time to make you pretty, little boy," Rohan mocked, his hands invading Arjun's most private spaces. He lathered up Arjun's legs, chest, and groin, the cool foam making Arjun shiver. Rohan's fingers lingered, tracing lines that sent unwanted jolts through Arjun's body. "Look at this tiny thing," Rohan laughed, flicking Arjun's manhood lightly. "No wonder you're going to be the girl tonight. It's barely there!" The others howled with laughter as Rohan shaved him smooth, every stroke a violation, every mocking word burning into Arjun's soul. Arjun stood there, eyes downcast, fists clenched, feeling exposed and emasculated under their gazes.
Once smooth and hairless, they dragged him to the bedroom. Sameer held up a set of black lingerie-bra and panties, borrowed from who knows where. "Put it on, or we send the video," Karan barked. Arjun's hands trembled as he slipped into the panties, the fabric clinging to his newly shaved skin, alien and constricting. The bra felt ridiculous on his flat chest, but they stuffed it with tissues for shape. As he adjusted, Vikram pushed him onto the bed. "Not so fast," he whispered, his breath hot against Arjun's ear. Without warning, Vikram's hand slipped under the panties, stroking slowly, sensually. Arjun gasped, his body betraying him as arousal built. Vikram edged him rubbing his private part over the panties expertly building tension, then stopping just before release. "Feel that? That's you becoming our girl," Vikram taunted, his fingers teasing relentlessly. For what felt like hours, they took turns, edging Arjun on the brink, his mind foggy with unwanted desire. He grasped at the sheets, trying to process the humiliation, the forced intimacy, but the edging left him dazed, aroused, and utterly compliant.
Finally, they dressed him further. A tight red kurti hugged his stuffed bra, accentuating curves that weren't there. Black leggings clung to his shaved legs, and a matching dupatta was draped over his shoulders like a veil. Simple black flats completed the look. Arjun stared in the mirror, barely recognizing the feminized figure staring back his boyish long hair tied in a ponytail, minimal makeup like lipstick blush and bindi applied by Karan to soften his features. "You're Anjali now,"
Vikram declared, dragging him out to the car. They headed to a Diwali event at a rooftop venue in South Mumbai, lights twinkling like stars. "Act like our girlfriend, or else," Vikram warned.
At the event, amid the aroma of samosas and the sound of Bollywood music, Arjun now Anjali was afraid so in fear clung to Vikram's arm, forced to smile and giggle at his jokes. Men leered at him, complimenting his "exotic beauty" in the kurti, their eyes tracing his figure. Vikram's friends mingled, whispering to others about the "new girl." Throughout the night, they cornered Arjun in quiet spots Rohan slipping a hand under the kurti to tease his chest through the bra, Sameer pressing against him from behind, whispering, "Feel like a woman yet?" Each touch edged him further, the lingerie rubbing against his aroused state, no release in sight. Bullying came in waves: "Dance like a girl, Anjali!" they'd command, forcing him to sway to the music, hips moving awkwardly. Teases about his "pretty legs" and "soft skin" made him burn with shame. By evening's end, Arjun was a mess-aroused, humiliated, senses overwhelmed, struggling to hold onto his identity as the men enjoyed his forced femininity.
The next day, Arjun thought it was over. But a message arrived: new videos from the event, capturing his every humiliated moment. "Deal's off," Vikram texted. "We want more fun." Blackmail escalated, pulling him deeper. They invited him to Vikram's home that evening, promising "just another event." Arjun arrived, heart racing, wearing the black lingerie under his clothes as instructed. But no event awaited only the four friends, grinning maliciously. "Tonight, you're becoming our wife," Vikram announced. Arjun's protests fell on deaf ears; the videos ensured obedience.
They didn't have more women's clothes, so they ordered him to beg the servant for hers. Arjun's face flushed as he approached the servant in the kitchen. "Please...I need a saree, blouse, and petticoat," he stammered, voice cracking. "A boy like you? Begging for our clothes? What, you think you're a woman now?" Servant mocked, handing him a worn, crushed blue saree, a faded blue blouse, and a simple petticoat. "Go play dress-up, little girl," the other sneered. Arjun returned, humiliated beyond words, the servant taunts echoing in his mind.
Back in the room, they stripped him to the lingerie and forced him into the petticoat, the drawstring tied tight around his waist. The blouse was next-tight and padded with more tissues to mimic breasts. As they buttoned it, the boys' eyes lingered on his "tight blouse formed padded chest," hands brushing unnecessarily. "Look at those tits," Rohan jeered, pinching through the fabric. Unable to resist, they pushed him against the wall, hands diving into the lingerie again, rubbing his private part and edging him slowly. Strokes built arousal, stopping short, leaving Arjun gasping, mind swirling with confusion and unwanted pleasure. "You're getting hard for this, aren't you? Our little bride," Sameer mocked. Arjun's thoughts raced-how had it come to this? The edging blurred reality, making him question everything.
They draped the saree loosely, the crushed fabric hanging unevenly, pleats sloppy. It felt foreign, restrictive, every fold a reminder of his forced role. The fake wedding began in the living room, decorated with cheap fairy lights and garlands scavenged from storage. Arjun stood trembling as they chanted mock mantras, laughing through the "ceremony." Vikram tied a mangalsutra around his neck, a necklace symbolizing marriage declaring, "Now you're our wife, Anjali.
Obey your husbands." The humiliation peaked; Arjun felt the weight of the chain, a mark of his subjugation.
Photos followed by group shots with Arjun in the center, saree disheveled, mangalsutra gleaming. Then came the groping: hands on his waist, thighs, "breasts," treating him like a woman. "Feel that, wife? That's how we touch our girls," Karan whispered, edging him more under the saree. Touches were sensual, teasing, building arousal without mercy. All recorded, adding to the blackmail arsenal. Arjun struggled, protesting weakly, but the edging left him weak-kneed, senses lost in a haze of forced desire.
By night's end, they pushed further. "This is your life now," Vikram said. "Wife duties start soon." Arjun lay there, saree tangled, mangalsutra cold against his skin, mind reeling. He was no longer just Arjun he was being molded into Anjali, struggling against the tide, each push deeper into feminization and humiliation
