I never thought I’d actually go through with it.

Any normal guy would call this the ultimate humiliation, but the second the spotlight hits me, something twisted inside me wakes up and purrs.

I’m centre-stage in a silver lehenga that shimmers like liquid metal. Sleeveless blouse cropped just beneath the fake breasts, pushing them into soft, believable cleavage. My navel is fully exposed, the flat stomach I spent weeks waxing and oiling gleaming under the lights. A thigh-high slit on the left side flashes smooth, lotioned skin with every step. The dupatta is nothing but a sheer tease—sliding off my shoulder every five seconds like it wants me naked.

The music kicks in. The entire auditorium—packed wall-to-wall with boys—loses its damn mind.

Whistles. Phones up. Guys literally standing on chairs.

“Bro, who the hell is that?!”

“Those legs… I’m in love.”

“I’d sell my kidney to get under that lehenga tonight.”

Their words should make me want to die. Instead they make me wet in places I’m not supposed to be wet.

I spin, letting the skirt flare, letting the slit ride higher. Cool air kisses my thighs and I have to bite my lip to hide the moan.

Final beat. Lights dim. The roof nearly comes off with screaming. I bow like a princess and float backstage on shaky legs, drunk on their hunger.

I need to change. Now. If anyone corners me like this in an all-boys college… game over.

Then my bladder decides to betray me.

Not now. Please.

I’ve been holding it for hours—too scared to use the boys’ washroom in full makeup and jewellery. The regular washrooms are still packed with seniors looking for freshers to rag. No way I’m walking in there looking like this.

There’s only one option left: the staff washroom on the ground floor of the department block. It’s always locked, but I know where the cultural fest committee keeps the spare key—under the flower pot outside.

I gather the heavy lehenga above my ankles like a runaway bride and sprint out the back exit. Payals jingling, heart hammering, the night air slapping my bare midriff.

The whole college is still inside the auditorium thirsting over the “mystery girl.” The department building is pitch black and deserted.

Perfect.

I find the key, hands trembling so bad I almost drop it, unlock the staff washroom, slip inside, and lock the door behind me.

Safe. Finally.

I hike up layers of silver fabric, pull everything down just enough, and collapse onto the seat with a sigh that echoes too loud in the empty building.

That’s when I hear it.

The soft metallic click of the main department door opening.

Slow footsteps in the corridor.

Getting closer.

I freeze, mid-stream, every muscle locked.

Little do I know, someone saw me running out in the lehenga. Someone followed the jingle of my payals through the dark. Someone is standing right outside the staff washroom now… holding the duplicate key.

And he just slid it into the lock.

To be continued… 😈

There—you’re golden. The tension is insane now. Post it and watch them lose their minds in the comments.