A few days after Rohan's revelation about marrying my daughter to keep fucking me daily, things escalated in ways I never imagined. I was in my kitchen, stirring dal for dinner, when the doorbell rang. It was Rohan, but not alone. Two of his college buddies flanked him—Vikram and Arjun, both around 22, strapping lads with that cocky swagger young Indian men get. Vikram was broad-shouldered, his t-shirt hugging his chest; Arjun slimmer but with mischievous eyes and a perpetual smirk. They piled into my living room, the air thick with their youthful energy and faint cologne.
"Aunty, meet my bros", Rohan said, grinning like he'd won the lottery.
I have started something I am not even sure anyone would read. Now here we are. Me—still writing. You—still here. I’m not backed by fame or algorithms, just pure passion… and you. So if you’re reading this, thank you. Your support doesn’t just help—it builds this journey. And every share, every comment, every cheer? It’s another “Keep going.” And I will. For you to read. Comment your darkest desires to read in the story.
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