The night had stretched into an eternity of torment for Arjun, now trapped in the persona of Anjali. After the fake wedding ceremony dissolved into a frenzy of groping and edging, the four friends Vikram, Rohan, Sameer, and Karan finally grew weary of their plaything. They had pushed Arjun to his limits, their hands roaming over the crushed blue saree, teasing him until he was a quivering mess of arousal and shame. "Enough for tonight," Vikram declared with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with possession. "But you're sleeping like this, wife. In your saree. Get used to it." Arjun, exhausted and defeated, could only nod weakly as they led him to the bed in what they now called "his" room a spare bedroom in Vikram's apartment, adorned with minimal furniture and a large mirror that reflected his feminized form back at him mockingly.
He collapsed onto the soft mattress, the saree restricting every movement. The petticoat bunched around his legs, the blouse dug into his padded chest, and the pallu slipped awkwardly as he tried to find a comfortable position. For so long, Arjun had slept freely as a boy sprawled out in loose pajamas, unburdened. Now, the fabric clung to him like a second skin, the mangalsutra dangling coldly against his neck, a constant reminder of his forced status. He tossed and turned, the loose ties threatening to unravel, but eventually, fatigue overtook him, pulling him into a deep, uneasy sleep.
In the dead of night, while Arjun slumbered oblivious, the friends crept back in. The room was dimly lit by a streetlamp filtering through the curtains, casting eerie shadows. Vikram signaled to the others, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Time to make sure he knows he is enjoying this," he whispered. They gathered around the bed, careful not to wake him fully. Rohan gently lifted the edge of the saree, exposing the black lingerie beneath. Their hands worked in unison—slow, sensual rubbing of Arjun's private part over the panty fabric, edging Arjun in his sleep. His body responded instinctively, arousal building despite his unconscious state. They teased him relentlessly, building the tension higher and higher until, with a muffled gasp, Arjun climaxed, the wetness started to imprint, staining the front of the saree in a sticky, undeniable mess. The friends stifled their laughter as Sameer snapped a photo Arjun's face peaceful in sleep, saree disheveled, mangalsutra prominent, and the wet stain glaringly obvious. "Look at that," Karan whispered. "He will realise he enjoyed sleeping like our little wife." Vikram nodded, pocketing his phone. "He's forever ours now. No escaping this."
Morning light pierced through the curtains, rousing Arjun from his dreams. For a fleeting moment, he hoped it had all been a nightmare the blackmail, the feminization, the fake wedding. But as he shifted, the saree rustled against his skin, the petticoat tangled around his thighs, and the weight of the mangalsutra confirmed the harsh reality. He sat up carefully, clutching the pallu to prevent the loose ties from falling apart completely.
His mind raced: How do I get out of this? Just as he swung his legs over the bed, the door burst open. "Good morning, beautiful wife!" Vikram exclaimed, followed by the others, all grinning like predators.
Arjun froze, instinctively adjusting the pallu over his shoulder as he'd seen women do in countless Bollywood movies draping it modestly, though it felt absurd and unnatural on him. But in this moment, it made a twisted kind of sense; it was all he could do to maintain some semblance of dignity. The action only fueled their amusement. Vikram and his friends erupted into laughter, pointing at the wet stain on the saree.
"Oh, look at that! Anjali's been a naughty girl in her sleep," Rohan howled. "Enjoying your saree sleeping night, huh? Dreaming of your husbands?" They crowded around, pulling out the phone to show him the photo from the night Arjun asleep, stained saree, mangalsutra shining like a badge of ownership. "See? Your body doesn't lie. You love this," Sameer taunted, zooming in on the evidence.
Arjun's face burned with humiliation. "No... that's not... I didn't..." he stammered, denying vehemently, but the stain was from his own body, a betrayal he couldn't explain away. Tears welled in his eyes as the mocking continued, their words like daggers: "Our little wife got all excited in her saree. Pathetic, but cute." After the laughter subsided, Vikram's tone turned serious, though laced with glee. "Listen up, Anjali. From now on, you're our wife. Whenever we call, you come here immediately and dress for your role. No excuses." He paused, eyeing the borrowed saree. "And you can't keep borrowing from the servants they work hard for their clothes. You better steal from your mother or neighbour three or four sarees, matching blouses, and petticoats—one set for each saree, and an extra spare petticoat in case you wet yourself again." The giggles exploded anew at that, the friends slapping each other's backs.
Arjun's head bowed, tears streaming silently. Steal sarees? From where his mother's wardrobe? What if she caught him? The thought of rummaging through her closet, explaining away missing items, filled him with dread. "And don't forget," Vikram continued, "two shades of lipstick—red and pink, some kajal for those pretty eyes, bindis since you're a married woman now, and a set of bangles to jingle when you walk." More laughter. Arjun's mind reeled: How could he buy these in secret? Walking into a cosmetics shop as a boy, asking for women's makeup? The shopkeeper's stares, the questions it was impossible without raising suspicion.
But Vikram wasn't done. "Before you leave, I want a video to deepen the control and to remind you who you are." He held up his phone, camera ready. "Pick up the mangalsutra it's still around your neck. Touch it to your forehead like taking blessings, and say: 'My name is Anjali. I love my husbands Vikram Rohan, Sameer, and Karan.'" Arjun stared in stunned silence, the words sinking in like poison. The others cheered him on, bullying with taunts: "Do it, wife! Or the videos go viral." Cornered, with no escape, Arjun complied. His hands shook as he lifted the mangalsutra, pressing it to his forehead in a mock blessing, his voice breaking: "My name is Anjali... I love my husband's Vikram, Rohan, Sameer, and Karan." Vikram beamed, stopping the recording. "Aww, we love you too, wife. So sweet."
He allowed Arjun to keep the mangalsutra on until he left the house. "Keep it safe," Vikram instructed. "As soon as you enter this apartment next time, it goes back on your neck. Then you can change into whatever we want. This is your room now, Anjali use the closet to store the things I've asked you to bring." Arjun nodded numbly, stepping out into the hallway to find his male clothes folded neatly. But as he passed the kitchen, the servant who had lent the saree spotted him. Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in fury at the sight of the stain. "You filthy sissy!" she hissed, grabbing him by the neck and yanking him close. "You stained my saree with your... your mess?
Wash it neatly and return it, or Else I'll dress you up in it myself and pimp you out on the streets. Understand?!"
Arjun trembled, ashamed to his core. "Y-yes, madam... I'm sorry," he whispered, voice quivering. She released him with a shove, and he bolted to the hallway, quickly changing into his jeans and t-shirt. He wiped off the remnants of lipstick with his sleeve, untied his hair back into a boyish style, and carefully packed the stained saree, blouse, and petticoat into a bag to wash later. Heart pounding, he fled the apartment, the mangalsutra hidden in his pocket like a secret curse. The fear lingered how long could he keep this up? The blackmail tightened its grip, pushing him further into a life he never wanted, struggling every step as Anjali.
Discussion (1)
Damn, so good ♡(> ਊ <)♡