***(Please read Part 2 before reading this, Part -2 has somehow attached together with the part-1 so no seperate title)***
Arjun stumbled into his apartment, slamming the door behind him as if it could shut out the nightmare unfolding in his life. The autorickshaw ride home had been a blur of chaotic thoughts flashes of the fake wedding, the edging, the stained saree, and now this mangalsutra burning a hole in his pocket like a cursed talisman. How had a petty prank spiraled into this? He lived alone in this high-rise in Andheri, a modest one-bedroom flat his parents rented for him while he attended college nearby. Weekends, he'd escape to their family home in Thane, but now even that felt tainted. As he entered, his neighbor, Aunty Catherine a kind-hearted Christian woman in her fifties who treated him like a son since his parents were far spotted him from her doorway. "Arjun beta, why aren't you at college today? Everything okay?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
"I'm not feeling well, Aunty," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes, his voice hoarse from the morning's tears. She nodded sympathetically, reminding him to eat something warm, before he slipped inside. College was out of the question; he was hours late, and his mind was a storm. He flicked the light switch...nothing. Power outage again. Sighing, he stripped off his clothes, pausing at the black panties he'd worn under them as instructed. He tossed them aside with disgust, changing into loose boxers and a vest, then collapsed onto the bed for a quick nap. But sleep brought no relief; dreams replayed the humiliations the servants' mockery, the groping hands, the forced video confession. Three hours passed in fitful rest before he woke, the room stuffy and warm without fans. Needing air, he headed to the terrace, the building's rooftop oasis where residents dried clothes and escaped the city's chaos.
The breeze hit him like a balm, but it was short-lived. His phone buzzed: a text from Vikram. "Hey wife, not seeing you in college. Hope you are well..." Arjun's annoyance flared at the word "wife." Fingers flying, he replied: "Leave me alone... I don't want to talk to you." The response was swift and vicious: "Are you sure, madam? 👿" Attached were the damning images—the saree with its wet stain, the mangalsutra gleaming, and the video of his "blessing" declaration. "Bloody well reply properly." Arjun's stomach twisted, bile rising. He typed frantically: "Sorry sir.... I was late reaching home."
The phone rang with a video call. Vikram's face filled the screen, smirking. "Hmmmm, I see you need to learn a lot about being a woman—and how to text your husband. Punishment for talking back." His eyes sparkled with malice as he scanned the background. "Turn around." Arjun obeyed, the camera showing the terrace's clotheslines fluttering in the wind. "Can you see that pink bra and panty on the line? Take them and wear them in front of me."
Arjun's world tilted. "Please, Vikram... that's Aunty Catherine's! She'll know, she'll find out. I'll be in so much trouble, please!" he pleaded, voice cracking. But Vikram's face hardened. "You have 5 seconds, or these photos hit the college groups. And wear them on camera." Panic surged. Arjun glanced around—the terrace was empty, the building tall enough to block views from neighbors. No one around. Trembling, he approached the line, unclipping the soft pink bra and matching panty. Back in frame, he stripped his clothes, slipping on the bra— it fit surprisingly well over his flat chest, though empty and loose. The panty was tighter, hugging his hips uncomfortably.
"Good girl," Vikram purred. "I need obedience and respect. Now, slowly rub your tiny private part over the panties and edge yourself till I say stop." Arjun's face flushed crimson, humiliation burning. But with no choice, he complied, his hand moving tentatively over the fabric. The sensation built, the panty tightening as arousal unwillingly stirred, serial—wait, sensual—waves making him gasp. Vikram watched intently, then commanded, "Stop." Arjun halted, breathing ragged. "Now say, 'I am sorry, husband. Please forgive me.'" Tears streaming, Arjun whispered it, his voice faint and broken. Unbeknownst to him, Vikram was recording every moment, adding to the blackmail trove.
Then, the lift door dinged open. Arjun's heart stopped—only a thin gate separated him from exposure. He yanked on his pants over the aroused, tight panty, the bulge awkward, and threw his t-shirt over the bra, straps peeking slightly if anyone looked close. To his horror, Aunty Catherine emerged, basket in hand, to collect her dried clothes. She spotted him. "Arjun, the electricity is back now. Why do you look so afraid, beta? Like you've seen a ghost!"
He swallowed hard, throat dry, acutely aware of wearing her intimate garments— the panty still constricting his arousal, the bra's cups pressing against his shirt. "Th-thank you, Aunty... just... nothing," he stammered, bolting past her down the stairs. On the call, Vikram's laughter echoed. "See? Now you're becoming the person you're meant to be—a woman. Stealing another woman's bra and panties to wear... And now you've got another set for your collection. Bye, wife." The call ended.
Arjun burst into his flat, collapsing against the door, sobs wracking his body. What had he done? Stealing from Aunty Catherine, the one person who showed him kindness? The pink lingerie felt like chains under his clothes, a constant reminder of his descent. He stripped them off carefully, hiding them with the mangalsutra in a drawer, but the shame lingered. How much further would this go? The blackmail was a noose, tightening with every "punishment," pushing him deeper into Anjali's shadow. He skipped meals, pacing the room, dreading the next text. Little did he know, Vikram's plans were only escalating, the web of humiliation far from complete.