Sonal Jain, 22, stepped into Rajhans Industries on his first day, clutching a leather briefcase. The lobby was marble-clad, the air conditioning humming softly. He’d aced the interview, thanks to his MBA and a knack for numbers. His boss, Mr. Arjun Singh, was a legend—a self-made man who’d turned the company around after his father’s death. Or so Sonal had heard.
At 10 AM, Sonal was summoned to Arjun’s cabin. The man behind the desk was in his late 30s, tall, with a salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that missed nothing. “Welcome, Sonal,” he said, his voice deep. “I expect dedication. In return, you’ll learn more here than in any classroom.”
Sonal nodded, intimidated. Arjun’s gaze lingered on his file. “You’re from Indore? Family there?”
“Yes, sir. Parents and a younger sister.”
“Good. Family keeps one grounded.” Arjun smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
A month later, Sonal stayed late to finalize a merger report. The monsoon had arrived with a vengeance, battering the windows. By 9 PM, the office was deserted.
“Leaving?” Arjun’s voice made Sonal jump. He’d emerged from his cabin, now in casual jeans and a kurta.
“The storm’s fierce,” Sonal said.
“Stay here. I’ll arrange clothes.” Arjun’s tone brooked no argument.
The guest room was dimly lit, the air conditioning set to a cool hum. Sonal stood in the doorway, his heart pounding against his ribs. The room was sparsely furnished—a single bed with a peach silk cover, a wooden wardrobe, and a full-length mirror leaning against the wall. On the bed lay a folded pink salwar kameez, its fabric shimmering under the lamp’s glow. Beside it, a lacy white bra, matching panties, and a chestnut wig with loose waves.
Arjun leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “It’s for my niece’s birthday,” he said, his voice low. “She’s your age. You’re her size.”
Sonal’s cheeks burned. He shifted his weight, the toes of his formal shoes digging into the plush carpet. “I’m not comfortable—” he began, but Arjun raised a hand.
“10% bonus for the night,” he interrupted, his tone casual. “Consider it overtime. You’re a smart boy—this is a smart move.”
Sonal’s throat tightened. The bonus would cover his sister’s tuition fees for two months. But this? Wearing a girl’s clothes? His mind raced—Mr. Singh had always been stern, distant. Why this sudden generosity?
“Think of it as a role,” Arjun added. “A game. No one will know.”
Sonal hesitated, then nodded. It’s just one night, he told himself. A costume. A joke.
Alone in the room, Sonal closed the door. The salwar kameez felt silky-soft against his fingertips. He undressed slowly, the fabric of his shirt and trousers pooling on the floor. The bra was next—a lacy white garment with padded cups. He adjusted the straps, the material alien against his chest. The panties followed—sheer and snug, their lace trim tickling his thighs.
The wig was the hardest. He pulled it over his head, the chestnut waves cascading past his shoulders. A lock brushed his cheek, and he flinched. In the mirror, he saw a stranger—soft curves where there were once angles, the pink fabric clinging to his hips.
“God, what am I doing?” he whispered, but the words felt foreign in this new body.
Arjun knocked softly. “Ready?”
Sonal opened the door, his hand trembling. The man before him—still in his kurta and jeans—smiled. “Turn around,” he said.
Sonal did, the salwar kameez swishing. Arjun circled him, his fingers brushing Sonal’s shoulder. “The wig suits you,” he murmured. “Makes your eyes look bigger.”
Sonal’s breath hitched. Arjun’s gaze was intense, but there was something else now—a softness, a warmth that hadn’t been there before.
“You look like her,” Arjun said, stopping in front of him. “My niece. She’s… fragile. Shy. But when she smiles, the room lights up.” He touched Sonal’s cheek, his thumb brushing the wig’s strand. “You have that smile.”
Sonal’s knees buckled. He’d never been called beautiful before. The word hung in the air, heavy and sweet.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
Arjun’s smile deepened. “Stay like this,” he said. “For the night. Let’s see how it feels.”
As the door closed behind him, Sonal stood rooted to the spot, the wig’s waves brushing his collarbone. The storm raged outside, but inside, the room was still—a quiet revolution of fabric and fear, of a boy in a girl’s skin, waiting to be seen.
That night, Sonal slept in the guest room, the wig tucked beside him. He dreamt of his sister’s laughter, of his mother’s hands, of Arjun’s eyes. When dawn broke, he found himself clutching the pink salwar kameez, its fabric cool against his skin.
Maybe, he thought, this isn’t so bad.
Days turned into weeks. Arjun began inviting Sonal home after work. “Dress as a girl,” he’d say, offering a sari and jewelry. “I’ll pay 10% extra.”
Sonal hesitated each time, but the money was irresistible. Soon, he had a wardrobe—silken kurtas, lehengas, and tailored blouses. Arjun taught him to walk in heels, apply kajal, and style the wig. “You’re a natural,” he praised.
One evening, Arjun handed him a red lehenga with gold embroidery. “Wear this tonight.”
Sonal obliged, his reflection startling him. The skirt flared, the blouse hugged his chest, and the wig’s curls brushed his shoulders. Arjun watched, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Turn around,” he said.
Sonal did, the fabric swishing. Arjun’s hands landed on his hips, pulling him close. “You’re more than a trainee now,” he whispered.
A month later, Arjun planned a “business trip” to Goa. They stayed in a beachside villa,
The villa in Goa was a away from Pune’s concrete jungle—a sprawling bungalow with whitewashed walls, a thatched roof, and a balcony overlooking the Arabian Sea. The air was thick with the scent of salt and frangipani, the waves a relentless roar against the shore. Sonal, now accustomed to wearing a salwar kameez on Arjun’s orders, had packed a blue one with silver embroidery, its fabric whispering as he moved.
Over dinner on the patio, a storm gathered offshore. Lightning cracked the horizon, illuminating the villa’s stone pillars. Arjun sat across from Sonal, a glass of red wine in hand, his kurta unbuttoned at the collar. The table was set for two—candlelight flickering, seafood platters untouched.
“Eat,” Arjun said, but his gaze lingered on Sonal’s hands, the henna patterns he’d applied that morning.
Sonal picked at a prawn, his appetite gone. The silence between them hummed with unspoken tension.
Then Arjun leaned close, his voice low. “Stay with me tonight,” he said. “I’ll double your salary.”
Sonal’s throat tightened. The offer was too much—two months’ pay, enough to clear his family’s debts. But the cost? This man, in this bed?
“But you’re a man,” he stammered, his fork clattering to the plate.
Arjun’s smile was slow, predatory. “Appearances deceive,” he said, standing. “Come.”
The master suite was a of contrasts—silk sheets, monsoon winds rattling the shutters. Arjun shed his kurta, revealing a lean torso, his skin glistening under the AC’s hum. Sonal’s eyes dropped to his waist, where a black strap-on device lay coiled like a serpent.
Sonal froze. “What—?”
Arjun stepped closer, his hands on Sonal’s shoulders. “Relax,” he said. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. About trust.”
Sonal’s breath hitched. The strap-on’s silicone tip brushed his thigh, cold and unyielding. This is wrong, his mind screamed, but his body betrayed him—a shiver, a pulse in his core.
“Trust me,” Arjun whispered, kissing Sonal’s neck. The touch was electric, Arjun’s stubble grazing his skin. “You’ve played the role so well. Now, let’s see if you can live it.”
As the storm raged outside, Arjun guided Sonal to the bed. The silk sheets pooled around them, the strap-on’s rhythm steady, mechanical. Sonal’s hands clawed at the mattress, his voice a mix of gasps and Arjun’s name. The rain’s drumming synced with their movements, a primal symphony.
“Look at me,” Arjun said, his grip tightening.
Sonal did, their eyes locking in the dim light. Arjun’s face was a mask of focus, but something flickered beneath—vulnerability? Regret?
“Tell me,” Arjun breathed, “do you want this?”
Sonal’s answer was a sob, a nod, his body arching into the rhythm. The words caught in his throat—Yes, yes, yes—until they spilled out, raw and unguarded.
Dawn found them tangled in sheets, the storm’s aftermath a calm sea. Arjun’s arm was a weight across Sonal’s waist, the strap-on discarded on the floor. Sonal’s throat ached, his muscles sore, but a strange warmth pooled in his chest.
“You’re mine now,” Arjun murmured, kissing his temple.
Sonal didn’t argue. In that moment, under the Goa sun, he wasn’t a trainee or a boy. He was Anjali, Arjun’s creation, his secret wife.
Weeks later, Arjun proposed. “Marry me,” he said, gifting a diamond ring. “Be my wife in every way.”
Sonal nodded, tears glistening. At the registry office, they signed as “Arjun and Anjali Singh.” In their new home, Aradhana embraced her dual role—CEO by day, husband by night.
A year later, Sonal—now Anjali—visited Aradhana’s office. A colleague gasped. “You’re Mr. Singh’s wife? But he’s…”
Anjali smiled. “Appearances deceive.”
That night, in their bedroom, Aradhana held her close. “Ready to tell the world?”
Anjali nodded. “Yes.”
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