Kidnapped 2

Just a recap on the characters:

Shanta Devi, the mother (50 yrs, 5’10”, 90 kg) 

Elder Daughter (30 yrs, 5’10”, 85 kg) → Meena. 

Younger Daughter (25 yrs, 5’11”, 85 kg) → Kavita.

Protagonist → Rounak (35 yrs, 5’3”, 63 kg)

Kidnapped 2

Rounak’s pleading fell on deaf ears. Meena and Kavita pounced on him together, while Shanta Devi supervised like a general.

“Hold him steady, don’t let him wriggle!” Shanta ordered.

Kavita slid her strong arms under his armpits, effortlessly lifting him off the ground. His feet dangled helplessly eight inches above the floor, as she held him upright like a misbehaving child. Meena tugged at his shirt, ripping the buttons in haste, then pulled his trousers down. Soon his underwear followed. In seconds, Rounak was bare, kicking in shame, face burning.

“See? A city babu is not so difficult to undress!” Kavita giggled, shaking him a little for emphasis.

Meena held up one of her sister’s salwar-kurtas. The fabric looked like a tent next to his slight frame. They forced his arms through, and within minutes Rounak was swimming inside the loose garments.

“Arre, look at him!” Meena clapped. “Like a little boy who stole his elder sister’s clothes!”

Shanta couldn’t help laughing now. “Go, Rounak ji, walk for us. Show how smart you look.”

Red-faced, he shuffled forward. The salwar dragged under his feet, the kurta sleeves covering his hands and were hanging beyond. He tripped almost immediately and tumbled down, caught at the last second by Kavita who scooped him up in her arms.

The hut rang with laughter.

Next, Shanta Devi herself stepped in. “Enough of this. Let’s see him in a saree.”

She wrapped one of her own light cotton saree around his bare body. The pleats swallowed him whole, the pallu draped awkwardly over his shoulder. They pushed him forward again, demanding another “ramp walk.”

Rounak tried to step carefully, but the folds twisted around his legs and he nearly toppled over. The women roared with amusement, clapping and whistling as if he were on stage.

But the crowning humiliation was yet to come. After a bit of rummaging in a wooden trunk, Kavita triumphantly held up an old frock. Bright yellow with giant red flowers, it was clearly a child’s garment.

“This one I wore when I was thirteen,” Kavita said proudly. “Let’s see if it fits our babu.”

To Rounak’s horror, it slipped over his head and fit snugly—in fact even slightly loose. He froze, realizing what that meant. At thirty-five years old, he was smaller than what Kavita had been at thirteen.

The sisters doubled over laughing, pointing at him. “Look, Ma! He’s tinier than your schoolgirl daughter!”

Even stern Shanta had tears in her eyes from laughing. “Ohh, Rounak ji… you’re finished. From today, you’re our little doll.”

They decided at once: since he cannot wear the same dress everyday, he would alternate between the frock and the saree. The salwar-kurta was too big for him and too clumsy for daily wear.

A fresh problem arose with the underwear. Kavita found an old school panty, but when they tried it on him, it was too big and loose and kept slipping off. Finally, after another round of laughter, they decreed that he would wear nothing underneath.

“The frock covers enough,” Meena smirked. “Anyway, easier for us to handle him when nature calls.”

Now began the real fun. With his legs free under the frock, the sisters found carrying him much easier. Kavita loved to scoop him up cradle-style, bouncing him as he squirmed. Meena preferred lifting him chest-to-chest, forcing his legs to wrap around her waist. Shanta would sometimes hoist him onto her broad hip as though he were a toddler.

Each lift brought fresh teasing:

“See how light you are, Rounak ji!”

“My arms don’t even ache. You’re smaller than my schoolbag.”

“Hold tight, babu! Wrap those tiny legs—good boy.”

Rounak buried his face in shame in the women's neck, but the women only laughed louder, delighted with their new plaything.

Rounak had no control over his days anymore. Once they fixed him in the yellow frock, it became his identity. Shanta Devi declared it with finality: “He will wear either this frock or the saree, nothing else. From now on, he is ours.”

The two daughters took charge of his daily handling. Kavita especially treated him like a doll. She would sit cross-legged on the floor, place him in her lap, and fuss with his hair or tug the frock to make it sit straighter. “Tilt your head… no, like this. Now you look like my little doll,” she cooed, squeezing his cheeks until he winced.

Meena, on the other hand, enjoyed taunting his pride. Whenever he tried to argue or beg, she would smirk and say, “A big city gentleman? Assistant Manager? Look at you now—wrapped in my sister’s school frock, being carried around by girls five, ten years younger than you. This is your real size, Rounak ji.”

Inside the hut, their laughter never ended. They teased his manhood openly, comparing him to girls half his age. Shanta occasionally scolded them for being too vulgar, but even she couldn’t resist commenting, “How helpless you are in front of women. What kind of man can’t even break free from girls so much younger or even much older than you?”

The humiliation deepened each time they carried him. Kavita delighted in testing different styles: sometimes cradling him across her arms like a baby, sometimes swinging him over her shoulder, his head dangling behind her back. At other times she would lift him chest-to-chest, forcing him to cling to her by instinct.

“You fit perfectly in my arms,” she teased. “Maybe I should keep you as my pet.”

Meena, bigger and steadier, carried him like a sack with one arm under his knees, the other behind his back, striding confidently through the house. “See how useless you are?” she mocked. “I can walk miles with you hanging here, and you still can’t do a thing.”

One evening, they decided to take him out into the jungle just for sport. Shanta warned, “Be careful. The jungle is dangerous.” But Kavita only laughed. “Don’t worry, Ma. He won’t run. Not like this…in a yellow frock.”

She slung him over her shoulder and marched out of the hut. Fireflies glowed among the trees, the air heavy with the sounds of crickets. Meena followed, ready to take turns.

They carried him alternately—sometimes caveman-style over the shoulder, sometimes piggyback, sometimes in front like a groom being lifted in a wedding. Each time they switched, they made him walk barefoot a few steps in the frock, watching him stumble and trip over roots.

“Walk straight, babu, show us your model ramp walk!” Kavita jeered.
“Careful, your frock might fly up. Don’t show us too much!” Meena added, and both burst into laughter.

Rounak’s protests only fueled their fun. His small size, his bare legs under the frock, his helpless dangling whenever they lifted him—it made him feel less than a man. They never let him forget it.

Meanwhile, inside the house, Shanta handled the serious work. She was in touch with the boys who had first grabbed Rounak from the boat. They had demanded a hefty ransom, but the company was bargaining hard.

“The amount will take time to settle,” Shanta explained to her daughters that night. “But the police are sniffing around them. They’re nervous.”

“Did they say anything about our location?” Meena asked sharply.

“No, no. They don’t know where he is. Even the driver was sent far away with the car. We are safe here for now.”

That reassurance allowed the sisters to keep playing with their captive. To them, Rounak was both a bargaining chip and a source of endless amusement.

Every day became a pattern:

Morning: force him into either the frock or the saree, make him parade inside the hut.

Daytime: carry him around in turns, mocking his manliness, laughing at his helpless protests.

Evening: feed him by hand, often making him eat from their palms like a child.

Night: tie his hands and legs again, and one of the three women sat awake on watch while the others slept.

Kavita especially whispered her jokes at night when she was on duty. She would sit with him cradled in her lap, rocking him gently, murmuring, “Poor babu… so small, so weak. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe. Just don’t cry.” Then she would chuckle to herself and stroke his hair, treating him like her favorite toy.

Rounak, trapped between fear of the gun and humiliation of their strength, had no choice but to endure.

At sunrise, the women untied Rounak. He sat curled in the corner, the yellow frock bunched around his knees. Shanta clapped her hands.
“Up, babu! Today you will wear the saree.”

Kavita tugged him to his feet, lifting him easily under his armpits as if he weighed nothing. She held him dangling for a moment, his legs kicking uselessly. “See, Ma, he’s lighter than my schoolbag.”

The saree was wound tightly around his bare body. The pleats brushed his ankles, the pallu slid over his shoulder. He looked like a caricature, bare-chested and awkward.

“Walk,” Meena ordered.

They made him pace the hut like a catwalk model. He stumbled on the heavy folds. When he tripped, Kavita caught him before he hit the floor—scooping him in a cradle hold, rocking him with exaggerated affection.
“Arre wah, look at my dulhan!” she laughed. “Such a delicate bride, can’t even walk in a saree.”

They clapped and whistled, enjoying his humiliation until his face burned red.

The real torment came in the day. The sisters competed to see who could carry him in the most ridiculous ways.

Over-the-shoulder: Kavita swung him across her shoulder like a sack of rice, his legs and arms dangling. She bounced him deliberately with each step, making him grunt and squirm.
“Not heavy at all,” she bragged. “I can walk the whole jungle like this.”

Piggyback: Meena squatted and pulled him onto her back. His short legs barely wrapped around her waist. She jogged across the room with him clinging tight, laughing, “Hold on, babu, don’t fall! Even your grip is so weak.”

Chest-to-chest: Sometimes they pressed him tight against their front, forcing his legs around their waist. Kavita especially enjoyed this style, rubbing his back mockingly. “See? You fit like a baby. Maybe I should burp you now.”

Each switch of carriers brought shrieks of laughter. Shanta watched, amused but stern: “Don’t break him. We still need our ransom.”

Dinner was no relief. They refused to untie his hands. Shanta would tear pieces of roti, dip them in curry, and press them against his lips.

“Eat properly, or I’ll smear it on your cheeks,” she scolded.

Meena sometimes fed him rice from her palm. “Open your mouth,” she ordered, shoving the food in until he coughed. Kavita turned it into a game—dangling morsels just out of reach until he leaned forward like a begging child.

“Good boy,” she cooed mockingly, patting his head when he swallowed.

By the end, he was sticky and embarrassed, crumbs on his frock, lips stained with curry.

At night, they tied his hands and legs again. But captivity didn’t mean peace.

Kavita, whenever it was her turn to watch, dragged him onto her lap. She rocked him gently, humming a tune, while he stiffened in shame.
“See, babu? You’re safest here. Don't be scared of the jungle—just sleep in my arms.”

Sometimes she shifted him into a cradle, his head resting in the crook of her arm, his frock riding up over his thighs. She teased, “How old are you dear? 35, no? And I am 25, you know that, na ? So pathetic, aren't you? A middle aged man lying on my lap like a little girl? Look at my little doll, so pretty, so helpless.”

When Meena’s turn came, she preferred intimidation. She would sit opposite him, gun on her lap, and say, “Try to run, and the snakes will bite you before my bullets do.” Then, just to humiliate him, she’d yank him onto her lap sideways, pinning him there like a misbehaving boy.

Even Shanta, though less playful, occasionally lifted him onto her broad hip. “Stay still,” she commanded, patting his back firmly. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

Thus every night ended the same—Rounak squirming in the arms of women stronger, larger, and completely in control.


That afternoon, the jungle was alive with buzzing cicadas and streaks of golden sunlight. The sisters decided their little “pet” needed fresh air.

Kavita took the lead, scooping Rounak off the ground without effort. She slid one arm behind his knees and the other around his back, lifting him in a smooth cradle. His bare legs dangled under the short yellow frock, his toes brushing the air as she carried him out of the hut.

“Come, babu,” she teased, “time for your jungle ride.”

Meena followed, chuckling. “Look at him. Thirty-five years old, but sitting in his sister’s arms like a doll.”

They walked deeper until they reached a clearing where an old banyan tree spread its thick branches low and wide. Kavita’s eyes lit up mischievously. “I have an idea.”

Before Rounak could protest, she shifted her grip, hoisting him higher and higher until suddenly she had raised him overhead. Her strong arms extended upward, holding him as easily as if he were a child.

“Arre wah!” Meena clapped. “Our city babu is flying!”

With one swift motion, Kavita placed him on a thick branch. His bare thighs scraped the rough bark as he straddled it awkwardly. From below, the two tall women stepped back, arms crossed, watching their captive cling for dear life.

It was a ridiculous sight—a grown man, dressed in a bright yellow frock with red flowers, no underwear beneath, clutching at the branch like a panicked monkey. His pale city face twisted in terror.

“Don’t move too much,” Meena called mockingly. “Your frock might fly up. Then the whole jungle will laugh!”

“Maaan, I can’t hold! Please take me down!” Rounak screamed, his voice breaking in desperation. His soft hands, not used to climbing trees, already burned against the bark. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

The sisters folded over in laughter. “Look at him!” Meena gasped. “So scared, like a schoolboy at PT class.”

They let him suffer a while, shrieking, legs shaking, the frock riding up his thighs as he squirmed. Birds scattered from the tree with his cries.

Finally Kavita stepped closer, her grin wicked. “Alright, babu. If you want to come down, just let go. Fall into my arms. I’ll catch you.”

Rounak looked down at her, wide-eyed. “No! You can’t… you’ll drop me!”

Kavita spread her arms confidently. “Try me. I was captain of my college team. I can catch anything.”

Meena egged him on: “Do it! Don’t waste our time, doll.”

Trembling, out of strength, Rounak shut his eyes. With a whimper, he released his grip. His small body tumbled—but before he could even gasp, Kavita caught him cleanly in her cradle hold. She took the impact with ease, laughing out loud.

“OUT!” she shouted, as if she had caught a cricket ball.

Meena roared with laughter, clapping her hands. “What a catch! India should take you in the team!”

But Rounak didn’t share their amusement. Overwhelmed by terror and humiliation, he buried his face in Kavita’s neck, his arms clinging desperately around her. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

Kavita looked down at him, still laughing but softer now, patting his back. “Arre, don’t cry, babu. You’re safe in my arms. Didn’t I tell you?”

But his muffled sobs only made their laughter grow again. Two towering sisters stood in the jungle, one cradling a weeping grown man in a frock, the other doubled over with mirth.

To them it was a game. To him, it was the sharpest cut to his pride—scared, helpless, humiliated, and completely at the mercy of women who enjoyed his captivity too much to ever let him go.