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By now, Neha was basically living with us full-time, her old apartment just a dusty memory she checked on once a month.
We’d set up a common WhatsApp group for the three of us to coordinate stuff like groceries, movie plans, or whose turn it was to cook. Innocent at first, but with the vibes already charged, it didn’t stay that way. Vikrant started dropping casual innuendos in there, like “Neha, that biriyani you made last night was spicy AF, but not as hot as you in those shorts.” She’d fire back quick, “Oh yeah? Bet you couldn’t handle the heat if you tried,” with a winky emoji. I’d read these at work, my phone buzzing, feeling that familiar rush of jealousy and arousal. He’d describe his lust outright sometimes, texting shit like “Can’t stop thinking about that ass slap from yesterday, need to do it again soon.” Neha wouldn’t miss a beat, teasing him with “Keep dreaming, or maybe earn it next time we’re home.” It was all text, no pics yet, but the group turned into this flirty playground where boundaries blurred fast.
Things heated up more after one lazy evening at the flat. Neha had just stepped out of the shower, smelling like her vanilla soap, wearing this light cotton gown that clung a bit to her damp skin. Vikrant and I were chilling in the living room, him on his phone, me flipping channels. She came over, ponytail still wet, and asked me sweetly, “Babe, can you apply some body lotion on my back? It’s hard to reach.” She turned away from us, facing the corner table with the mirror on it, her back to the room. I got up, grabbed the bottle, and from behind her, I gently lowered the gown off her shoulders, exposing her smooth back. Her boobs were out of the gown now, but since she was facing away, Vikrant couldn’t see the front. Or so I thought. I started rubbing the lotion in, my hands on her skin, her sighing softly. I glanced over at Vikrant, he was glued to his phone screen, angled a bit weird, not looking our way directly but side-eyeing maybe. Nothing seemed off, so I finished up, helped her pull the gown back, and we all carried on like normal. No big deal that night, just more of the usual teasing hugs and an ass slap before bed.
But the next day, we’re all at our workplaces—me in a meeting, Neha at her desk job, Vikrant wherever he was hustling. Group chat pings with a ? emoji from him, our code for NSFW stuff so we’d be careful not to open it in public. A few minutes later, he drops a video clip. I sneak a peek in the bathroom: it’s from last night, Neha’s back to the camera, gown down, but wait, there’s a clear view of her front reflected in that corner mirror. One of her perky boobs fully visible, nipple and all, plus part of her face with that cute dimple mid-smile as she chatted. He’d been recording the whole time, phone pointed at the mirror like a sneaky bastard. My stomach dropped, humiliation hitting hard. My best friend had captured my girl exposed without us knowing. I texted back furious, “Delete that shit now!” But Vikrant was casual, “Chill bro, I’ll blur her face and keep it for myself. No harm.” Before I could respond, Neha jumped in: “Yeah, without the face it’s whatever, let him have it. It’s kinda hot anyway.” She agreed so quick, like it was no biggie, turning my anger into that twisted turn-on. He blurred her face, resent the vid to the group with a caption like “Damn, that curve tho ? Wish I was the one lotioning,” and Neha replied, “You should get more videos like that to savor, perv. Who knows, maybe next time.” It didn’t need any convincing, Vikrant used this video to jerk off that night. This thought sent a chill to my body.
That video kicked the sexting into overdrive. The group became this constant stream of lusty banter. Him sending gifs of guys grabbing asses, her responding with eggplant emojis and “Bet you’d love to see me handle that.” One night, when he was travelling, he straight-up asked in the chat, “Send a hand bra pic, Neha? Cover up with your hands, tease me.” I shut it down fast: “No way, dude.” But a few hours later, while I was out grabbing food, Neha shot a couple faceless hand bra videos on her own. Her slim hands cupping her boobs, fingers teasing the edges, her yoga-toned body arched just right. She dropped two in the group: one static pose, the other a short clip of her squeezing lightly. “You’ve seen way more than this already,” she texted with it, “So enjoy, but don’t get too excited.” Vikrant blew up with fire emojis and “Holy shit, you’re killing me! Need the real thing soon.” I got home to find her grinning, showing me the chat, and we ended up in bed where she admitted it thrilled her to tease him like that, knowing it drove me crazy too.
It didn’t stop there. Another sexting case popped up a week later during a boring workday. Vikrant started it with a voice note in the group, low and husky: “Neha, remember that dance in Lonavala? Been jerking off thinking about your ass grinding on me. Send something to make it better?” She waited till lunch, then hit back with a text: “Naughty boy. How about this?” Attached was a faceless pic of her in those tiny shorts, bent over slightly, the curve of her butt on full display with a handprint faint from one of his earlier slaps. “Imagine your hands there again,” she added. He responded with a string of drool emojis and “Fuck, yes. Next time I’m not stopping at slaps.” I read it all during my break, heart pounding, humiliated that my girl was sexting my friend this boldly, but we talked about it later, her saying it was all part of the game we started. The lines were blurring bad, and I couldn’t deny it was pulling us deeper.
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