Arjun’s Secret Life as Anika

Arjun, a lanky 16-year-old from Mumbai, had always been drawn to his sister Anika’s clothes. The soft fabrics, the way they clung to the body—it felt like a secret world he wasn’t supposed to enter. One sweltering afternoon, while his parents were at work, he slipped into her room and pulled on a lacy thong and a padded bra. The thrill of the forbidden made his heart race.

But fate had other plans. That evening, his friends—Rohit, Karan, Aryan, and Vikram—showed up unannounced. They barged into the bathroom just as Arjun was hurriedly tugging down his jeans. He’d turned too soon, his fly still open, the bra still in place.

“Dude, what the hell?” Rohit gasped, eyes bulging.

Arjun’s face went crimson. “It’s… it’s nothing!” he stammered, yanking up his pants.

The boys exchanged glances, then burst into laughter. “You’re a freak, Arjun!” Vikram said, doubling over.

But Karan, the smoothest of the group, stepped forward. “We won’t tell,” he said, grinning. “On one condition.”

They dragged Arjun to his room, where Anika’s wardrobe awaited. “Pick something,” Rohit said, tossing a denim miniskirt and a fitted kurti onto the bed.

Arjun hesitated, but Karan’s smirk made him comply. He slipped into the skirt, its fabric brushing his thighs. The kurti hugged his frame, the bra beneath adding a subtle curve. A matching thong completed the outfit.

“Now the hair,” Aryan said, producing a wig from a drawer. It was chestnut, wavy, and fell to the shoulders. “Perfect,” he said, adjusting it.

Arjun’s reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable—a girl in a miniskirt, her face flushed. “You look hot,” Vikram said, smirking.

They renamed him Anika and herded him into a mall. The high heels made her ankles wobble, but she managed to keep pace. They called her “Sandy” for short, and she just managed to keep up despite the heels.

At the food court, Karan ordered pav bhaji for himself and a mango milkshake for Anika. She collected the tray, her bangles jingling as she balanced it. They fed her like a pet, Rohit even wiping her mouth with a napkin.

For photos, Aryan stood with his arm around her waist, Anika resting her head on his shoulder. Vikram asked her to sit on his lap, her cheeks burning as she felt his erection beneath her. Karan hugged her tightly, kissing her passionately as the camera clicked. Rohit leaned forward, placing her head in his lap, his hand possessively resting on her rump.

With their stomachs full and cameras loaded, the friends moved into the mall.

Rohit took Anika to a dress shop. She tried on jeans and t-shirts, the fabric clinging to her curves. Rohit’s eyes followed every movement. As she changed, he rushed to the washroom, returning minutes later, his face flushed.

Karan led her to a cosmetics store. Anika swatched lipsticks—cherry red, rose pink, deep maroon—on her hand. Karan watched intently, his breath hitching as she reapplied each shade. He excused himself, returning later with a satisfied smirk.

Aryan took her to a shoe store. Anika struggled to balance in stilettos, her skirt swaying as she bent to try on boots. Aryan stared up her skirt, his gaze lingering. After the tenth shoe, he too vanished into the washroom.

Vikram guided her to the lingerie section. He instructed her to leave the trial room door unlatched. Peeking in, he watched her switch bras and panties. Minutes later, he emerged, adjusting his pants.

That night, back at Arjun’s house, the friends crowded into his room. Anika stood in a sheer nightgown, her wig askew. Rohit and Karan kissed her cheeks, Aryan cupped her breasts, and Vikram slipped a hand between her legs.

“Relax, Anika,” Karan murmured, unzipping his pants. “We’ve been waiting all day.”

As Vikram thrust into her from behind, Rohit and Aryan fondled her, their touches rough yet thrilling. Karan kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth.

When it was over, they collapsed onto the bed, Anika’s wig tangled, her nightgown stained. Rohit grinned. “You’re our girl now, Sandy.”

Anika lay still, the weight of their bodies warm against her skin. Despite the shame, a flicker of something stirred—a thrill she couldn’t name.

The night spiraled into a feverish blur of commands and sensations. As Vikram’s rhythm slowed, the others turned their attention to Anika’s trembling form. Rohit, his breath ragged, yanked her nightgown over her head, leaving her in the lace bra and thong she’d worn earlier. “On your knees,” he growled, his voice low. The room swam with the scent of sweat and musk as Anika obeyed, her hands trembling as she undid his belt.

Karan, ever the orchestrator, fetched a scarf from Anika’s closet and blindfolded her. “Trust us,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. The world narrowed to touch and sound—the rough grip of Aryan’s hands on her hips, Vikram’s ragged breaths behind her, Rohit’s sharp commands. They moved her like a doll, each taking turns, their laughter echoing in the darkness.

Aryan led her to the balcony, the cool night air contrasting with the heat of his body. He pressed her against the railing, his hands exploring her curves as headlights from the street below flickered over her exposed skin. “Wave,” he murmured, his voice a dare. Anika’s heart hammered as she raised a hand, the thrill of being seen mingling with dread.

Back inside, Karan dragged her to the bathroom. Under the harsh light, he turned on the shower, the water cascading over her trembling frame. He soaped her slowly, his touch lingering on her chest and thighs. “You’re ours now,” he murmured, his lips trailing down her neck. The water slicked her hair to her face as he lifted her against the tiles, the cold porcelain biting into her back.

Vikram took her to the basement, the air thick with dust and shadows. He pushed her onto a pile of old blankets, his hands rougher than before. “Beg,” he demanded, his voice a growl. Anika’s voice caught in her throat, but she whispered the word, the humiliation sharp as pleasure. He rewarded her with a bruising kiss, his weight pinning her down.

Hours passed in a haze. They fed her mango slices, their fingers brushing her lips. They made her dance in her sister’s high heels, her movements clumsy yet mesmerizing. They took photos, each more explicit than the last, their phones glowing like talismans in the dim light.

As dawn threatened, Rohit collapsed onto the bed, spent but grinning. “You’re ours, Sandy,” he repeated, his hand tangling in her wig. Anika lay still, her body sore but alive with a strange, unsettling energy. The shame was there, a heavy blanket, but beneath it pulsed a thrill she couldn’t deny—a flicker of power in surrender, of belonging in the chaos.

The friends fell asleep around her, their limbs tangled like roots. Anika watched the first light creep through the blinds, her mind a whirl of fear and longing. She knew this wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.

The friends awaken one by one, their hangover of triumph fading into a grim satisfaction. Rohit scrolls through the photos on his phone, smirking as he texts a few to Karan. “Souvenirs,” he says, tossing the device onto the rumpled bed. Anika, still in her sister’s nightgown, watches from the corner, her body a map of bruises and lingering touches. Karan notices her gaze and leans in, his voice a honeyed threat. “You’re ours, remember? Or we’ll show these to your parents.”

Anika’s stomach twists. She knows they’re bluffing—aren’t they?—but the weight of their control is suffocating. Yet beneath the fear, a flicker of defiance sparks. She remembers the way Vikram’s hands trembled when he kissed her, the way Rohit’s eyes lingered on her neck as if memorizing her. They want this too, she thinks, a dangerous idea blooming.

Days pass in a cycle of tension and submission. The friends summon Anika to their hangouts, each time pushing the boundaries further—a school dance where Karan insists she wear a dress, a rooftop party where Rohit makes her dance on a dare. Yet Anika begins to play a quieter game: she starts dressing as “Anika” alone in her room, studying her reflection, experimenting with makeup. The clothes no longer feel like a cage but a skin she can shed or wear as she chooses.

One evening, she slips into Anika’s closet and finds a hidden stash of lingerie—silk camisoles, lace stockings, a corset Anika never wore. This is mine now, Anika thinks, a thrill coursing through her. She wears the corset under her school uniform, the pressure a secret thrill. When Karan notices her posture, his eyes darken. “You’re learning,” he murmurs, but Anika sees the uncertainty in his voice.

The tension snaps during a stormy night. The friends drag Anika to a dimly lit bar, their usual bravado fraying. Rohit gets drunk and aggressive, demanding she sit on his lap and “act like a girl.” Anika complies, but when Rohit’s hand slips too far, she freezes. Karan notices, his gaze sharp. “Enough,” he says quietly, pulling Rohit aside.

Later, alone in the alley, Karan finds Anika smoking a cigarette she stole from Vikram’s pack. “You’re not broken, you know,” he says, his tone unreadable. “You’re… something else.” Anika meets his eyes, a challenge forming. “What if I want this?” she whispers. Karan’s breath hitches, and for a moment, the power shifts. He kisses her then—not roughly, but with a hunger that scares them both.

The dynamic shifts. The friends begin to fracture—Vikram grows possessive, Aryan withdraws, Rohit’s cruelty sharpens. Anika, emboldened by Karan’s moment of vulnerability, starts testing their control. She wears her sister’s clothes openly, her posture defiant. When Rohit threatens to expose her, she laughs. “Go ahead,” she says. “See who they believe.”

The photos surface online—a single, grainy image of Anika in a miniskirt, her face obscured. The school erupts in whispers. Karan confronts Rohit, their friendship splintering. Vikram vanishes, too ashamed to face Anika. Aryan stays silent, his guilt etched in every sidelong glance.

Anika stands at the school gates, her brother’s clothes ill-fitting, her hair cut short. Her parents, unaware of the storm, fuss over her “phase.” Anika lets them, her mind already elsewhere. Karan waits for her after class, a single word on his lips: “Run.”

They disappear into the monsoon rains, the city swallowing them whole. Somewhere, in a cramped apartment, Anika slips into her sister’s clothes again, her reflection no longer a stranger. Karan watches, his hands steady this time. The photos linger online, but the story they tell is no longer theirs to control.