Meghna Ch. 01: Signed, Sealed, Spread

Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction intended for adults only. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The content contains explicit material and is meant for mature audiences aged 18 and above. Reader discretion is advised.

Copyright Notice:

© 2025 litorigami. All rights reserved. This story and its content are the original work of litorigami and may not be copied, reproduced, or distributed in any form without express written permission from the author.

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Chapter 1: Signed, Sealed, Spread

A Roka Night Ruin

On the night her engagement was sealed, Meghna Kapoor stripped, spread, and stuffed herself for her fiancé on video. Wearing diamonds. Moaning into her phone. With her mother downstairs serving paneer tikka.

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Prologue -- The Calm Before the Filth

For those unfamiliar, a Roka is the Indian equivalent of an engagement ceremony.

Not a ring-on-one-knee kind of thing--more like a two-families-signing-you-off-in-designer-couture kind of thing.

It's where the aunties pray, the uncles drink, the bride smiles politely in ₹10-lakh lehengas, and everyone pretends this isn't basically a glamorized transfer of property.

I should know.

I was the property.

Meghna Kapoor. Twenty-four. Born into Delhi privilege, raised in Mumbai filth. The former party princess with a passport full of stamps and a past full of secrets.

And now?

Engaged.

To Kamaljeet Singh.

A man who could make stock markets shift with a phone call... and my pussy clench with a single look.

During the ceremony, he hadn't said much. Didn't need to.

Just one glance from him--right when my mother smeared that red vermilion dot on my forehead--and I'd almost soaked through my fucking lehenga.

The orchid decor cost more than most people's cars. The catering was from Taj. The photographers were flown in from Milan. And still, none of it compared to the heat between my legs when Kamaljeet's fingers brushed my waist while adjusting my dupatta.

Now we were back at the house.

Old-money Golf Links bungalow.

Marble floors. Silver platters.

And me, still in full bridal drag, pretending to be the good Indian daughter while the living room buzzed with mithai trays and distant gossip about the gold rates.

"So, Meghna," my chachi grinned, sipping whisky like it was tradition, "has he texted yet or are you playing hard to get?"

"I'm not that easy," I smirked, even as my phone vibrated in my palm with a message from him:

"Go upstairs. Strip. Show me what's under that ₹10-lakh lehenga."

My throat tightened.

My nipples hardened under the blouse like they'd heard the command before my brain did.

"She's blushing!" Priya squealed. "You know he texted."

I rolled my eyes. Smiled. Nibbled on kaju katli like a sweet little beti.

But inside?

I was drenched.

Because in five minutes, I'd be upstairs.

In front of my mirror.

Naked.

On a video call.

Ready to give my soon-to-be husband a private strip show so filthy it would haunt him through every board meeting.

And by the time I was done?

I wouldn't just be his bride.

I'd be his filthy, little possession.

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On the night of our Roka, I lay spread out on my plush, four-poster bed like the scandal I was about to become--legs tangled in silk sheets, nipples brushing against air, heart thudding like a drum I couldn't silence. My phone was in one hand, Instagram open, and the other... honestly, dangerously close to sliding between my thighs.

The feed was full of sanskari overload--congratulatory comments, emojis of hearts and tikka flames, filtered snaps of me demurely smiling beside Kamaljeet, dupatta pulled just low enough to make aunties praise and uncles stare. They didn't know I wasn't wearing panties under that lenhga. They didn't know what kind of filthy bride I already was. But he did.

And then--ping. My heart stuttered. A message from him lit up my screen like sin itself.

"Meghna." Just my name. One word and I was already wet.

Another message slid in, like a hand beneath my nightie. "I've been thinking about you all night. Tell me... what are you wearing?"

Fuck. That voice of his--how did it purr even in text? I could practically hear it, that slow, possessive growl that always made my thighs press together like they were hiding something. He wasn't asking. He was playing. Pushing boundaries. Making me ache from just pixels.

I bit my lip and let my fingers slip lower under the sheet, barely grazing my inner thigh.

What was I wearing? Nothing he couldn't take off with one message.

I let the hunger curl in my belly, then typed slow. Deliberate.

"Just my favourite babydoll nightie."

I paused. Smirked. Then added:

"It's barely there."

A lie. It was already on the floor, somewhere between my vanity and my sin. I was naked under the sheets, nipples hard, thighs slick, and every part of me tuned to his voice, even when it came as cold text.

I could almost feel him reading it--see the smirk on his face, the way he probably adjusted himself in those silk pyjamas I pretended not to fantasize about.

I wanted to be bad. And he knew it. I wanted him to pull the good Indian bride apart before anyone could even tie the knot.

"Send me a picture."

Not a question. Not a request.

A command.

I stared at the words like they were a leash being fastened around my throat. A shiver ran straight down to my dripping cunt. I should've hesitated. Should've pretended to be shy.

Instead, I was already moving--sliding out from under the covers, the sheet clinging to my skin like it didn't want to let me go. I padded to the mirror on bare feet, heart pounding like I was about to commit a crime.

My reflection was pure trouble. Sheer lace. Hard nipples. Hair messy in that just-fucked-but-not-yet way. My thighs were already glistening, and I hadn't even touched myself properly yet.

I raised the phone. Angled it. Clicked.

One shot. No filters. Just slut.

I looked at it once--saw the hunger in my own eyes--and hit send.

His reply came fast.

"Very nice, Meghna."

My pussy clenched.

Then:

"Now let's make it interesting. Take it off for me, sweetheart. Let me see all of you."

I let out a shaky breath, one hand holding the phone, the other already sliding behind me to untie the bow at my back. The lace loosened like it knew its time was up.

But I couldn't give in that easily, could I?

"Only if you promise to take something off for me too," I typed, letting the words drip with bratty defiance. My heart was racing. My skin prickled with heat. I could practically feel him through the screen--towering, smirking, stroking that thick cock while I played coy.

His response? Immediate.

"Deal. But remember, you started this."

My knees nearly buckled.

I dropped the nightie, let it slither down my body like it was scandaled by my filth. I was naked now. Fully. Glowing with Roka jewelry and post-ritual sin.

And I knew--every inch of me was his to look at, to claim, to ruin.

The video call notification lit up my screen like a countdown to something unholy.

My finger hovered above 'Accept', trembling--not with fear, but from the way my nipples brushed the night air every time I breathed.

He wants to see me. Live. Raw. Exposed.

I tapped it.

Kamaljeet's face filled the screen, and fuck, he looked like sin wrapped in silk. Dark eyes burning into me. Lips curved in that knowing smirk that said he already owned my soul and was about to collect my body.

"Good girl," he murmured, eyes crawling over me like they had fingers.

I swallowed. My skin flushed under his gaze like he was licking me through the screen.

"Your turn," I whispered, throat dry, pussy soaked.

He stood up slowly, still holding the phone low--angled just enough to make it dirty. His legs were bare beneath that midnight blue silk. He was in his office, Mumbai glittering behind him like a city watching its queen being stripped.

He unbuttoned his shirt one. fucking. button. at a time.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just watched as his chest emerged, golden brown and sculpted like something I'd straddle in a fever dream.

Then his fingers dipped to the waistband of his pyjamas, and I swore I felt it in my throat before he even pulled them down.

"Turn around."

His voice dropped an octave--richer, darker, silk soaked in whiskey.

"Bend over. Spread those thighs. Show me how wet you are, Meghna."

My body obeyed before my brain could catch up. I turned, knees sinking into the bed, hands on the edge of the mattress, arching until my ass was high, my back dipped, my bare cunt exposed in the soft golden light of the chandelier above.

I could see myself in the mirror across the room--hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips parted like I was begging.

And I was.

My fingers slid down--hesitant, delicate--before they found the heat between my legs. I gasped as I brushed my soaked folds, the slick sound making my thighs tremble.

His voice came through like thunder.

"Slower."

That one word dragged across my skin like a whip. I slowed down, fingers gliding over the lips of my pussy like I was drawing his name there.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You look like a fucking meal. Look at yourself. Look what I do to you."

I did. I watched myself, exposed, bent, dripping, fingering myself for my fiancé while the whole fucking city slept below.

"Bring me the champagne."

That voice--low, rough, loaded--rolled through the speaker like a slap across my cunt. I froze.

Not get the champagne.

Not open it.

Bring it to him.

Like I wasn't in my bedroom but on my knees in his fucking palace.

I scrambled off the bed, legs shaky, tits bouncing, heart hammering like I'd just been caught doing something wicked. Which I had.

The fridge door opened with a hiss, and I grabbed the cold bottle--my fingers tingling against the condensation.

As I strutted back into the room, bottle in hand, hips swaying, the contrast hit me: chilled glass against the furnace that was my body. I was soaked and flushed, hair a mess, and between my legs, I could feel the ache--the deep, pulsing ache of wanting to be used.

"Your wish is my command," I whispered into the phone as I climbed onto the bed, bottle in hand like a sex toy I hadn't even unwrapped yet.

He growled. "Fuck, Meghna. You're going to ruin me."

I tilted my head, lips curling.

"You like watching me like this, don't you?"

But I already knew the answer. His hand was moving again. Slower now. Hungrier.

I didn't just open the bottle--I performed it.

One teasing twist of the cork, a little shake of the hips, and then--pop.

The sound echoed through the room like the start of a sex scene. Foam fizzed up and over the lip, and I caught it with my hand--cold, bubbly, perfect.

I held his stare through the screen, then licked it off my palm--slow, obscene, eyes half-lidded like I was already halfway to cumming.

Then I tilted the bottle toward my lips and poured.

Champagne cascaded into my open mouth, down my chin, across my throat. It slithered between my breasts, tracing every curve like his tongue should've been doing.

I moaned, loud and unfiltered, as the cold liquid kissed my overheated skin.

Kamaljeet's breathing stuttered on the other end of the line.

"Is this what you wanted?" I asked, voice thick with filth and bubbles.

I arched back, letting more spill. It ran down my stomach in rivulets, soaking the patch of neatly trimmed hair above my throbbing slit.

"To watch your good little bride ruin herself while she drinks for you?"

His response? A dark, hoarse "Don't stop."

I brought the slick, wet bottle to my mouth like it was sacred.

Tilted my chin. Parted my lips. And wrapped them around the mouth of it--slow, suggestive, downright indecent.

Kamaljeet groaned, the sound low and primal through the speaker. I smiled with the bottle still in my mouth.

"Blow it," he growled, hand clearly working his cock now. "Like you're going to blow me tonight."

So I did.

I started to move--head bobbing, lips tight, tongue swirling against the cold glass, the same way I'd treat his cock if he were here.

My cheeks hollowed. Drool mixed with champagne, running down my chin in glistening, shameless drips.

I moaned around it--loud. Letting the vibrations travel through the bottle as if I was already milking him.

His camera shook. His breathing turned ragged.

"Fuck, Meghna... you're going to make me lose it."

I pulled back with a filthy pop, grinning, lips glossy with spit and fizz.

"I haven't even started yet."

His voice dropped into something darker. Rougher.

"Take it out, Meghna."

I blinked, breath hitching.

"Fuck yourself with it."

The bottle--still wet from my mouth, glistening with spit and champagne--glowed like a loaded gun in my hand. My pussy clenched so hard I whimpered.

I froze. Not out of fear--but because that single line split something open inside me.

I laughed. Soft. Nervous. Wet.

"Kamal..."

But I wasn't protesting. I was stalling. Because the idea of sliding something that obscene into my body while he watched made my legs shake.

"You're mine," he said, voice silk-wrapped steel.

"Every inch. Every hole. Now show me."

My thighs parted instinctively.

I brought the bottle lower, the thick, cold neck pressing against the swollen lips of my dripping cunt.

My hand was trembling. My mind was spinning.

This wasn't just naughty. It was fucking scandalous.

Roka night, and I'm about to fuck myself with Dom Pérignon.

And I loved that he made me.

I stared at my reflection as I brought the neck of the bottle between my thighs. The cold glass kissed my clit and I shivered--knees quivering, toes curling into the rug.

I didn't slide it in yet.

No.

I played.

I circled. Letting the bottle trace lazy figure eights over my swollen nub, each pass making my hips twitch and my pussy clench with greedy, aching hunger.

Kamaljeet was silent on the line--but I could hear his hand.

That unmistakable wet sound of slick skin-on-skin, his breath ragged, sharp, almost pained.

"Good girl," he finally murmured, like I was a prize he'd trained. "Now show me more."

I widened my legs, tilting my hips so he had the perfect, shameless view.

My clit throbbed against the bottle's lip like it was begging for more pressure.

I rolled it gently. Gently. The pressure made me bite my lip hard--hard enough to hurt.

"Kamal..." I whispered. "I need--"

"What do you need, baby?"

His voice was cruel now. Sweetly cruel. "Say it. I want to hear you beg."

I gasped as I tapped the glass against my clit harder, hips stuttering.

"I need you," I whimpered, voice trembling.

"I need you inside me."

My breath hitched as I positioned the thick, dripping neck of the bottle against my entrance.

I held my phone up--made sure he could see everything. The angle. The spread. The way my pussy pulsed open like it was begging to be filled.

My fingers trembled as I pushed--just the tip.

Cold glass kissed hot flesh and I gasped, a broken, filthy sound that made his name fall off my lips like a prayer.

"Fuuuck..." I whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

It slid in slowly, parting me, stretching me, the chill of it electric against the dripping heat inside me. My walls clenched so tight I could hear the slick suction as the bottle eased deeper.

"Keep going," Kamaljeet's voice rasped, almost unrecognizable. "Take it. Every inch. Don't you dare stop."

I moaned--long, low, uncontrolled--as I sank further down. My back arched, hips twitching, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress, the other still holding the phone like this was my sick, private porn shoot.

"Oh god," I gasped, my thighs shaking. "It's so fucking big."

The bottle filled me completely--thick, rigid, obscene--and my cunt wrapped around it like it didn't want to let go.

I wasn't just turned on.

I was ruined.

For anyone but him.

My hand gripped the bottle tighter, hips already moving in tiny, desperate jerks.

The glass glided in and out of me, slick with my arousal, my body clenching around it like it belonged there.

I couldn't believe what I was doing. Couldn't believe how right it felt to be watched while I used a champagne bottle like it was my fiancé's cock.

And then--his voice.

"Fuck yourself harder."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was law.

I obeyed instantly.

My hips bucked, frantic now, the bottle pumping in and out, my cunt squelching wet and loud as I fucked myself for him. The filthy sounds echoed in the room like applause.

"Place the bottle on the floor," he growled, breathing hard, "I want you to ride it. Bounce on it like it's my cock."

My pussy clenched violently at the order. I pulled it out with a slick, sticky pop--my thighs soaked, my whole body trembling.

"You're so bad," I whispered, crawling down onto the rug like the obedient little whore he'd made me.

"And you're loving every fucking second of it," he shot back, stroking himself with sharp, punishing fists.

And I was.

Every goddamn second.

I placed the bottle upright on the marble floor--wet, glistening, obscene.

The neck was coated in my slick, the air thick with sex and scandal. My thighs shook as I knelt above it, spreading my legs wide, the cool surface of the bottle kissing the heat of my inner thighs.

I could feel him watching--his breath ragged through the phone, his camera tilted just enough to show his cock, thick and swollen, pulsing in his hand.

"Slowly," he said. "Let me see you take it inch by inch."

I reached down, positioned the bottle beneath my soaked entrance, and hovered.

My pussy throbbed, clenching at nothing, desperate to be filled again.

I began to lower.

"Fffffuck--" the word fell out of my mouth like a moan wrapped in a prayer.

The cold glass parted me again, but this time gravity was in control. I sank onto it inch by inch, my walls stretching open, protesting and welcoming it all at once.

My head fell back, hair tumbling down my spine, tits bouncing slightly as I adjusted to the bottle's shape--thick, rigid, merciless.

"Oh my god," I whimpered, "it's too much..."

"No it's not," Kamaljeet growled, voice ragged. "You were made for it. Take more."

And I did.

I sank all the way down until I was full--stuffed and shaking--my cunt swallowing every inch of that expensive, disgraceful glass.

I started to move.

Tentative at first--little rolls of my hips, tiny fuck-you circles on the neck of that bottle while it stretched me from the inside out.

My thighs quivered with every bounce, knees planted wide on the rug, tits swaying, hair stuck to my flushed skin.

I reached down, two fingers landing right on my swollen clit, rubbing soft, slow spirals--tiny electric shocks that made me gasp every time the bottle nudged deeper.

"Bounce," he ordered, voice thick like he was close. "Faster. Let me see you fuck yourself stupid."

I obeyed.

Lifted. Dropped.

Again.

Again.

The sound was so wet, so loud, I almost blushed.

Almost.

But I didn't stop.

I rode that bottle like it was his cock--like my cunt was made to swallow glass if it meant making him groan like that.

"Fuck, Meghna," he moaned. "You look like a fucking dream."

I turned my head to the mirror and gasped.

My reflection was ruined--wild hair, smeared lipstick, breasts jiggling, sweat glistening on every inch of brown-gold skin. And between my legs? A champagne bottle disappearing inside me like I was born to perform for him.

I looked like a sex goddess--and I loved it

My fingers moved faster--circling, pressing, rubbing like I was chasing the devil through my clit.

My thighs were shaking violently now, knees slipping on the rug, my entire body stuttering every time I dropped back down onto the bottle.

I was so close. So fucking close.

"Kamal--" I gasped. "I'm gonna--oh fuck--I'm gonna--"

"Let go," he rasped, his strokes feral now. "Come for me, baby. Come with my name on your fucking lips."

That did it.

My head snapped back. A scream tore from my throat--high, broken, raw--as the orgasm ripped through me like a violent wave.

My pussy clamped down around the bottle so hard it made a wet sucking noise, my body twitching, convulsing, riding it like I was possessed.

I came so hard I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

Just clung to the edge of the world while wave after wave of pleasure detonated through my core.

My clit throbbed under my fingers, my stomach spasmed, my vision went white.

I didn't just come--I collapsed into it. Boneless. Fucked.

And then--

The door opened.

"Meghna beta, are you--OH MY GOD!"

The voice sliced through the room like a fucking knife.

I froze.

Every part of me locked into pure horror.

My mother.

Standing in the doorway.

Sari pristine. Eyes wide.

Staring.

At me--straddling a bottle of Dom Pérignon on the bedroom floor, thighs soaked in cum, tits bouncing, one hand still between my legs.

At my phone--where Kamaljeet's very smug, very naked face still glowed from the screen, his cock clearly out of frame but the context screaming.

Her eyes flitted from the phone to the bottle... to me.

And I swear to God, her soul left her body.

She didn't scream.

God, that would've been better.

I could've handled a slap. A shout. Even a dramatic faint onto the marble.

But no.

She just... stood there.

Frozen.

Silent.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

Like a fish gasping in the middle of a five-star horror show.

My thighs were still spread.

The bottle made a soft clink against the marble as I tried to lift myself off it--and failed.

I winced. Everything clenched--emotionally, physically, spiritually.

My pussy still twitched, betraying me.

She looked at the phone again. Saw Kamaljeet.

His shirtless, still-hard, still-grinning face.

Her eyes snapped back to me--naked, glistening, glass-stuffed Meghna Kapoor, her newly engaged daughter.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was low, trembling, and so terrifyingly calm it made my blood freeze.

"Meghna Kapoor... what in God's name is this?"

I opened my mouth.

To explain?

To cry?

To beg for some impossible version of forgiveness?

I don't know.

But she raised a trembling hand--don't speak, the gesture said. Spare us both.

"Oh beta," she said, voice shaking, eyes darting to the floor like the sight of my bottle-stuffed cunt might permanently blind her.

"Please. Don't finish that sentence."

She turned slightly, as if shielding herself from the trauma.

"I've seen enough. I... I just came to ask if you wanted more paneer tikka."

My brain short-circuited.

Was this real? Was I hallucinating mid-orgasm come-down?

But no.

My mom--the woman who once fainted when I wore ripped jeans to brunch--had just witnessed me fucking myself with a champagne bottle on a video call with my fiancé...

And she was still offering snacks.

As she backed away, slowly, like I was possessed, she muttered under her breath. A blur of prayers and threats.

"You need Jesus. And a therapist. Possibly an exorcist."

And with that--

The door shut.

Hard.

The silence after she left was deafening.

Just me.

My soaked thighs.

A bottle still lodged inside me.

And the faint smell of paneer tikka in the hallway like some twisted punchline.

I didn't move.

Couldn't.

My pussy was still twitching around the glass, every nerve frayed, fucked raw, and now--humiliated into legend.

Then--

His laugh.

Deep. Smooth. Fucking dangerous.

It rumbled through the speaker like thunder. Confident. Unapologetic. Amused beyond reason.

"Well," Kamaljeet said, voice thick with the smirk I couldn't see but could feel between my legs, "that escalated."

I stared at the screen, stunned, cheeks burning, orgasm still buzzing in the deepest parts of me.

I was mortified.

And still kind of throbbing.

"I'm going to die," I whispered. "I'm going to move to the Himalayas, change my name to Poonam, and pretend Instagram never existed."

He leaned in, eyes dark and smug and so fucking turned on.

"You're not going anywhere, Mrs. Singh-to-be."

A pause.

Then--

"Next time?"

His voice dropped into something filthy enough to wreck me all over again.

"Next time, I'll be the one fucking you with the bottle."

THE END