Forced Feminizing our wife Arjun

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

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.

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.

Arjun jolted awake before dawn, his sheets twisted around him like restraints from his nightmares. Dreams of sarees around him, mangalsutras choking his breath, and mocking laughter echoing in endless halls had plagued his sleep. He rubbed his eyes, the weight of the previous days pressing down like a monsoon cloud. A quick shower did little to wash away the mental grime; the water cascaded over his shaved skin, a stark reminder of his forced smoothness. Drying off, he stared at his wardrobe, selecting a simple blue jeans, white t-shirt, and a light jacket to blend in. But as his hand reached for a fresh boxer, Vikram's taunting text from the night before flashed in his mind: "Wear panties to college tomorrow, wife. Or else." Reluctance twisted his gut, sadness welling up as he bypassed the boxers.

The black panties from the previous day lay crumpled on the floor, stained with dried evidence of his unwilling climax—unwashed and revolting. No way he could wear those. With a heavy sigh, he pulled out the pink set stolen from Aunty Catherine's line. Sliding into the panties, he winced at their tightness, the fabric hugging him like a vice. To his shock, the constriction flattened his small private part almost completely, erasing any bulge. It was both a relief and a horror less noticeable, but a deeper emasculation. The bra he left behind; no instruction for it today. He worried about the pink hue showing if his shirt rode up, so he tucked the t-shirt deep into his jeans, pulling his belt extra tight. A quick glance in the mirror showed a normal college boy, but the secret beneath screamed otherwise.

Grabbing his backpack, he skipped breakfast—time was short, and he'd grab lunch at the canteen. Locking the apartment, he descended the stairs carefully, every step mindful of the panty's grip, restricting his stride just enough to feel unnatural. The bus ride to college was tense; he sat rigidly, avoiding bumps that might shift his clothes. Surprisingly, the morning classes passed normally—no sign of Vikram or his crew. Lectures on circuits and algorithms droned on, but the constant tightness of the panties served as a silent tormentor, a whisper of "Anjali" with every shift in his seat.

Lunch hour arrived, and the canteen buzzed like a beehive—students laughing, the aroma of pav bhaji and dosas filling the air. Arjun wove through the crowd, but suddenly felt hemmed in. Bodies pressed from front, back, and sides—four guys closing ranks, their presence suffocating. Before he could react, a familiar voice purred in his ear: "Hello, wifie... how's our wife doing today?" Terror iced his veins, shockwaves rippling through him. His mind blanked, heart hammering as he tried to turn, but Rohan seized his right hand and pinned his right leg with his own. Sameer mirrored on the left, immobilizing him subtly amid the chaos. Karan, facing him, reached behind with a grin, unbuttoning Arjun's jeans in one swift motion, yanking up the t-shirt just enough to expose the panty just enough.

Arjun's mouth opened to protest—"Stop, please!"—but Vikram clamped his left hand over it, silencing him. With his right, Vikram dove in, rubbing over the pink panties, edging Arjun with slow, deliberate strokes. The crowd masked their actions, voices drowning any muffled sounds. Arjun's body betrayed him again, arousal building under the sensual assault, tears streaming down his cheeks as his mind spiraled into a haze of humiliation, unwanted pleasure and a drop of precum started to appear now there's no control. Just as release neared, Vikram withdrew, whispering, "that stain looks you enjoyed it wifie....Hope you enjoy your day, wifie. See you Friday evening at our house." They released him in unison, the other three flinged Arjun's private part as they left causing a sudden rush of arousal to Arjun.

Arjun stood frozen, then realized his jeans were still undone panties visible. Panic surged he zipped and buttoned frantically, hands shaking, praying no one had seen the flash of pink panty or his aroused state. Luck held; the canteen's density had shielded him. But the bulge strained against the tight panties, restricting every move, a throbbing reminder. He skipped lunch entirely, and slumped onto a bench outside to catch his breath, willing the arousal to fade. The afternoon classes blurred by in a fog of dread; he scribbled notes mechanically, mind replaying the violation. How could they do that in public? The risk, the shame—it terrified him.

As the final bell rang, Arjun bolted uncomfortably cause of the panty towards the bus, heading back to his apartment. The day's events replayed in his head like a horror film: the secret panties, the cornering, the edging in broad daylight. Friday loomed like a storm—another summons to Vikram's, no doubt with more demands. He arrived home exhausted, locking the door and collapsing on the bed. The mangalsutra in his drawer called to him mockingly; he had to steal those sarees tomorrow, buy the makeup. Tears came again, but resolve flickered faintly—he had to find a way out, somehow. Yet deep down, the blackmail's grip felt unbreakable, pulling him inexorably deeper into Anjali's world.

As Arjun closed his eyes, desperate to escape the day's horrors, a sudden realization hit him: it was Wednesday, and Vikram had demanded the sarees by Friday. Tomorrow, he would have to sneak home and steal them. While plotting his plan, his gaze fell on the crumpled black panty in the corner. He knew he had to wash it for tomorrow and the pink one he'd worn all day, stained from his edging session with... his husbands....wait no why had that word even crossed his mind? "Gather yourself, man," Arjun muttered, shaking off the confusion.

He rose, grabbed both panties, and hand-washed them, humiliated and disgusted by the precum stains he'd left. He dried them in the living room no way could he risk the terrace, especially with these being Catherine Aunty's. Slipping into boxers and clothes, he studied, ate dinner, and collapsed into bed, forcing himself not to dwell on the past day or the nightmares awaiting in the next two.

Morning routine began with a bath. As he reached for his boxer, he remembered: panties only. He fetched the black one from the living room and pulled it on, the fabric a constant reminder. He packed a spare boxer and night clothes for his parents' house, ensuring his lunch was secure this time—no repeats of yesterday's humiliation.

The college day passed normally, with no texts or sightings from Vikram and his crew. Arjun focused on classes, tugging his t-shirt down to hide the waistband. Lunch came and went without inspection; he even considered swapping to his spare boxer but decided to wait until after classes.

Relieved, he dashed for the bus home. Midway, panic struck—he'd forgotten to change and was still in the panty. Arriving, his mom looked shocked to see him on a Thursday, not the usual weekend.
"I have project work this weekend, so I won't come," Arjun explained.
His mom eyed his tucked-in t-shirt oddly. Only then did he realize: standing before her in panties under his pants. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I need a shower," he blurted, rushing inside. He changed into house clothes, stashing the panty deep in his bag.

After snacks and studying, he schemed to steal his mom's saree sets. The servant left at six; Mom entered the kitchen then, Dad arrived at 6:45. A narrow window.
The clock struck six. Hearing her in the kitchen, Arjun tiptoed into their room, opened the cupboard, and grabbed three sarees. He hunted for matching blouses and petticoats, stuffing them under his shirt. Rushing out, a blouse slipped. He dumped the bundle in his room and dove for it—just as his mom appeared.

"What are you doing in our room, Arjun?"

Panicking, he stammered, "Just grabbing a pen."

Back in his room, he sighed in relief. The night proceeded normally: dinner together, then bed. Morning came, and he donned the used black panty again, in case Vikram checked. At college, as lunch ended, his stomach churned—he had to head to Vikram's house after classes. He couldn't fathom what awaited him.

Arjun's last lecture dragged on, each tick of the clock amplifying the dread pooling in his gut. The sarees, blouses, and petticoats weighed heavy in his bag, a stolen secret that could unravel everything. As the bell rang, he lingered in his seat, hoping for some miracle delay