I am Nikita. Twenty years old, second year college student in Mumbai. I've always felt like I was born in the wrong city, the wrong country, the wrong era. Mumbai gave me a taste of freedom — neon lights, late-night metro rides, rooftop parties. But even Mumbai sometimes felt too small for the life I wanted.
I hated everything traditional Indian. The way aunties asked about marriage the moment you turned twenty. The way parents treated daughters like fragile investments that must be locked up until a "suitable boy" came with a good salary and a big family name. Arranged marriage? To me it was the ultimate scam. A legal way for a man to buy a woman for lifelong sex and household service, wrapped in the word "sanskar". No fire. No choice. No real love. Just compromise dressed up as culture.
I wanted passion. I wanted to be wanted — badly, shamelessly, without apology. And Suraj gave me exactly that.
Suraj was tall, messy-haired, always smelled faintly of cigarette and expensive cologne. We met at a college fest — he was doing sound for the rock band, I was dancing in a crop top and ripped jeans. He looked at me like I was dessert. We started dating two weeks later. No long talks about future, no "when will we get married" pressure. Just stolen kisses in empty staircases, late-night drives to Marine Drive, hands under clothes in the back seat of his friend's car.
That evening I was waiting outside his college gate after my last lecture. Short black skirt — the kind that rode up when I walked — tight white crop top showing a sliver of midriff, silver belly chain glinting under the streetlights. I knew he liked me like this. Vulnerable. Accessible.
He came running, helmet in hand, grinning like a kid who just won something.
"Late again," I scolded, but I was already smiling.
"Traffic, baby. But look at you…" His eyes roamed shamelessly over my body. "You trying to kill me tonight?"
We rode to the nightclub on his bike. I hugged him tight from behind, feeling the heat of his back against my chest, my boobs pressing into him every time we braked. Wind whipping my hair. Freedom.
Viky's birthday bash was at one of those fancy Bandra spots — dim purple lights, thumping bass, velvet ropes, VIP section. Viky's dad owned half the real estate in South Mumbai, so money was never an issue. The moment we stepped inside, Viky and Kiara were waiting like hosts of a royal ball.
Viky — tall, gym-built, always wearing designer everything — gave Suraj a bro-hug. Kiara — stunning, long legs, red lipstick — air-kissed me on both cheeks.
"Finally! The power couple arrives," Viky laughed.
Inside, the music was already loud enough to feel it in your bones. We found Aryan and Tara at our reserved table. Aryan — quiet, intense, secretly the most romantic of the boys. Tara — bubbly, always laughing, but with a wild side nobody expected.
The six of us were inseparable. We'd been through exams, heartbreaks, drunken fights, and make-up sex stories shared at 4 a.m. over chai. No judgment. Just love.
We hit the dance floor immediately.
Suraj pulled me close the second we stepped under the strobe lights. His hands started innocent — waist, hips — then turned naughty. One palm slid down to cup my ass firmly, squeezing while we moved to the beat. I felt his fingers dig in, possessive. I laughed, swatted his hand away.
"People are watching, idiot."
"Let them watch," he whispered in my ear, breath hot. "You're mine."
He spun me around, pulled my back to his chest, one hand sneaking up under my crop top, brushing the underside of my boobs. My nipple hardened instantly under his thumb. I bit my lip, trying not to moan right there on the dance floor.
We danced for what felt like hours — sweaty, breathless, bodies grinding shamelessly. Every time I pushed his hand away, he'd find another place to touch. Thigh. Lower back. The curve where ass met thigh. I was soaked by the time we finally stopped.
We collapsed at the round table, ordered shots — tequila, vodka, whatever came fastest. Laughter. Teasing. Music still pounding.
Suraj sat beside me, thigh pressed to mine. Under the table his hand was back — sliding up my bare thigh, slow, deliberate. My skirt was short. Too short. His fingers reached the edge of my panty. I clamped my thighs together.
"Suraj…" I warned under my breath.
He just smirked, pressed harder, middle finger tracing the outline through the thin fabric. I was dripping. My face burned. I pretended to laugh at something Aryan said, but my whole body was focused on that single finger trying to slip inside.
Then Viky clapped his hands.
"Guys. Enough boring shit. Let's make tonight memorable with a couple game"
Kiara raised an eyebrow. "What game?"
"7 Minutes in Heaven."
The boys exploded — whoops, high-fives, wicked grins. The girls looked at each other. Nervous. Excited. Curious.
I'd seen it in Hollywood movies. Always wanted to try. That rush of doing something forbidden. Something American. Something free.
Kiara hesitated. Tara giggled. I shrugged.
"I'm in," I said. "Life's too short for boring parties."
The boys cheered louder.
Viky called the manager. Two private rooms were arranged — soundproof, attached to our VIP area, king-size beds, dim red lights.
Viky set it up like a pro: three cards with our names — Nikita, Kiara, Tara — placed in a triangle. Empty beer bottle in the center.
"Rules simple. Spin. Bottle points to a card — that girl goes in with the spinner. Seven minutes. Door locked. Lights off. Do whatever you want. No questions asked after."
My heart started hammering. Nervous butterflies mixed with dark excitement.
Suraj spun first.
The bottle turned lazily… slowed… stopped.
Pointing straight at Tara's card.
My stomach dropped.
Tara looked surprised, then giggled nervously. Suraj stood up, offered his hand like a gentleman — but his eyes were pure hunger.
They disappeared into Room 1. Door clicked shut. Locked.
We stood outside like idiots, ears pressed to the wall, giggling.
At first — silence.
Then Tara's voice, soft, pleading:
"No… Suraj… please… don't open…"
Suraj, low, coaxing:
"Just let me see, baby… just once… you're so fucking hot…"
A gasp. A moan.
Tara: "Ahh… slow… please…"
Fabric rustling. Bed creaking.
We were dying laughing outside — but jealousy clawed inside my chest. That was my boyfriend. Touching her. Kissing her. Maybe more.
Seven minutes felt like seven years.
We knocked. Door opened.
Tara stumbled out, cheeks flushed crimson, fixing her top, hair messy. Suraj behind her — lips swollen, shirt untucked, smug as hell.
He caught my eye. Winked.
I forced a smile. Inside — storm.
Next spin — Viky.
Bottle spun… spun… slowed…
Stopped on my name.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Viky stood up slowly, eyes locked on mine. He offered his hand. I took it — fingers trembling.
We walked into Room 2. Door shut. Locked. Lights off.
Darkness swallowed us.
No words.
Viky pushed me against the wall first — hard. His mouth crashed on mine. Rough. Hungry. Tongue deep. I kissed back — angry, jealous, turned on.
He lifted my skirt. Fingers hooked into my panty — yanked it down to my ankles in one motion. I stepped out.
He dropped to his knees.
His mouth found my pussy instantly — hot, wet tongue licking long stripes, circling my clit, sucking hard. I cried out, hands in his hair, trying to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
"Viky… fuck… wait…"
He didn't wait.
He grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head with one hand. With the other he spread me wider. Tongue fucked me deep while his thumb rubbed furious circles on my clit.
I was shaking. Legs buckling.
Then he stood. Pocket rustled. Foil packet torn.
I heard the condom roll on.
He lifted one of my legs, hooked it around his waist. Positioned himself.
One hard thrust — he put his dick inside me. Thick. Stretching. Filling.
I gasped.
He didn't go slow.
He fed me against the wall — fast, brutal, desperate. Bed forgotten. Just wall, bodies slamming, my moans mixing with his grunts.
My nails dug into his shoulders.
His hand squeezed my boobs, twisting my nipple through the fabric.
I came hard — unexpectedly — clenching around him, crying out.
He followed seconds later — groaning, hips jerking, filling the condom.
Knock knock.
"Time!"
He pulled out fast. I scrambled — panty up, skirt down, legs shaking.
Viky pocketed the condom like evidence. Whispered:
"Game rules. You can't say what happened here."
We stepped out.
Everyone screamed, teased, whistled.
Suraj looked at me — searching. I avoided his eyes.
Later Aryan and Kiara went in. More giggles. More secrets.
The night blurred — more drinks, more dancing, more touches.
I thought: this is living. This is freedom. Friends. Love. Lust. No guilt.
I was wrong.
Two weeks later.
Sunday morning. Family trip to my grandfather's village in Uttar Pradesh. Dad driving our old Creta. Mom in front. Me and my little brother Arjun in the back — him playing PUBG, me scrolling reels.
Dad was humming an old Kishore song. Mom laughing at something he said.
Highway was empty. Sun bright.
Then — horror.
A truck — massive, speeding, wrong lane — appeared out of nowhere.
Dad swerved.
Too late.
Impact.
Metal screaming. Glass exploding. World flipping.
Pain — white-hot.
Then black.
When I woke up — hospital smell. Beeping machines. White ceiling.
My grandfather sat beside the bed, face buried in his hands. Grandmother beside him, silently weeping.
I tried to sit up.
Couldn't feel my left leg properly.
Looked down.
Blanket flat below my left knee.
Nothing.
My one leg… gone.
Amputated above the knee.
I stared. Brain refused to understand.
Grandfather lifted his head. Eyes red.
"Beta… only you and Arjun survived."
Arjun — bandaged, broken ribs, but alive — was in the next bed.
Mom… Dad…
Gone.