Rohit's eyes snapped open — but he wasn't in his room.
He was standing inside a packed bullet train from the late '90s. The carriage felt suffocatingly full, bodies pressed together in dark office suits. Every single face around him was Japanese, eyes glazed with commuter fatigue, waiting for their stations.
Confusion gripped him. Just moments ago, he'd been in India, reincarnated as the young master of a wealthy family. And now… he was back in his twenties — back as Riku.
He tried to remember. After coming home from school, he had been exhausted — partly from staying up late the night before, partly from the chaos of the day. He barely had the strength to toss his shirt aside before blacking out. And now… this strange, yet familiar, place.
He tried moving his hands. Nothing. He couldn't control his body. A dream, he thought at first. But instead of panic, an odd calm washed over him, as if he were in a VR simulation, with his body on autopilot and his mind forced to watch.
He tried to snap open his eyes many times to break the dream but couldn't. He tried to calm down as he realized his current body in the dream state was actually on his journey to college. He had headphones in his pocket, his hands tapping on them as he enjoyed music from a Sony Walkman cassette player—the lyrics were by Hikaru Utada, a J-pop song that had a solid debut in 1998.
Then the song switched. …Baby One More Time by Britney Spears.
Riku's blood ran cold. His heartbeat pounded. His skin prickled. He knew what was about to happen.
A soft bump to his right — the bag of a Japanese schoolgirl in uniform brushed against his hand. It had shifted awkwardly on her shoulder. She trembled slightly, holding the pole, while the bag kept sliding down. From his angle, he couldn't see much — the crowd was too dense.
He turned his head, pretending to focus on the music instead, waiting for the inevitable.
The station announcement rang out.
Then a commotion arose, and the schoolgirl collapsed on the floor.
The crowd recoiled as if struck. Her skirt was wet. The floor beneath her… glistening. Her sobs filled the carriage as she covered her face.
Murmurs rose as people made space. Soon, the train arrived, and the police came, quickly alerting others with a whistle. The crowd surrounded them, and commotion rippled through.
One feminine voice said, "Someone molested her."
Another added, "She looks so young. How can someone be such a creep?"
The lady police officer came and tried to cheer up the girl. She politely asked, "Are you alright? Can you recognize who did it to you?"
Soon, some bystanders arrived with cameras flashing, and the other police officer tried to move them away.
The girl kept sobbing, but the lady police officer's words gradually calmed her down. She tried to look back and saw several men in suits, gawking at her as if she were an animal in a zoo. She sniffled and coughed.
The lady police officer asked for a water bottle, and then Riku's body moved. "Here, take it."
The girl looked up, and realization dawned on her face as she pointed at Riku. His voice matched one she had heard before.
Riku quickly caught on and tried to flee, but the crowd pinned him down, followed by the police.
Then came the insults.
"Look at him—so young, and already losing control," said a woman.
"His parents must be pathetic to bring him into this world," said an old man.
"Officer, please make sure this scoundrel gets jailed for a long time, or our daughters won't be safe anymore," said a bespectacled office worker with authority in his voice.
Riku's body tried to look at the police officer. "Officer, it's a mistake. You have to trust me—it's a mistake."
The officer cuffed him and struck him on the head with a baton. "Disgusting… creep."
And he passed out.
Rohit jolted awake with a snap, sweat pouring down his face. The sensation of dread he'd felt wasn't just in his mind—it had happened to his real, living body.
"Twenty-seven years," he muttered, "and it still haunts me… doesn't make any sense."
He brushed his hair back, got up, and walked to his study table to grab the water bottle.
Taking large gulps, he finally began to cool down. "So many things have changed since then," he sighed, then cursed under his breath. "Damn it… I won't let myself be suppressed again."
He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushed himself out of bed, and walked to the study table. The water bottle was waiting. He took deep, greedy gulps until the chill soothed his throat and steadied his breathing.
A glance around the room told him nothing had moved — his shirt still hung over the desktop screen, his blazer crumpled on the floor, exactly where he'd tossed them last night.
He picked up his iPhone X. The YouTube tab was still open. The title on the video he'd been watching earlier blinked back at him:
"When bullies mess with wrong guy {{Satisfya}} ~ Rohit Singhania!! #singhania #schoolfight"
Cringe? Maybe. But the numbers didn't lie. In just three hours — 10k views, 1.5k likes, and a swarm of comments.
The footage opened with Shweta sending him a gift, then cut to the bullies mockin
The footage opened with Shweta sending him a gift, then cut to the bullies mocking him. The edits flowed into the confrontation, the fight, and their eventual defeat. The guy who uploaded it had done a surprisingly clean job — sharp audio, crisp video, testimonies intact, ending with a selfie backed by a crowd of supporters. Not viral yet, but solid enough to leave a mark. A weapon for later.
Watching it brought back the memory — the stench of oil poured on him. He raised his hand to his nose. Still there. Disgust twisted his face. Time for another shower.
He scooped up the shirt and blazer and headed in.
Inside the shower, he tossed his clothes into the bucket, stripped completely, and let the cold water cascade over his body. The chill struck him instantly, jolting him with fresh energy.
As he reached for the soap, his eyes caught sight of the size-enhancing oil again, reminding him of his personal side quest to increase his size. Even though he was already eight inches long, it still lacked the thickness his original self had possessed.
The jar had less than a quarter left. It was meant to be applied weekly, so it made sense that it had lasted for nearly two years. He opened the small jar, let two drops fall onto his palm, and rubbed the oil along his shaft. The sensation was like a cold breath wrapping around him.
He gripped the base firmly and stretched upward toward the tip, only releasing when his other hand took the same position as before. It was the milking exercise — a technique his Yakuza martial master had taught him to direct blood flow in a particular way.
Two minutes later, heat surged through him, and his length stood firm, throbbing like a loaded gun in a sharp salute.
He put the jar back in its place and applied soap, but the erection didn't go down. He recalled that his previous body owner had some trouble with fapping after applying the oil—it stayed erect for quite a long time, causing problems with minor adjustmemt issues.
But last time in the hospital, he hadn't experienced any issues.
Intrigued, he took out the jar and read the details he had never bothered to look at before, nor had his previous owner.
There was no expiry date. The label was divided into two sections: one side had a diagram showing hard, semi-hard, and flaccid states, while the other side had some small text.
It mentioned that having sex or fapping after applying the oil could be helpful, as it maintains blood flow and assists with enlargement practice. Hearing this, Rohit raised his eyebrow.
He put the jar back and started fapping. He recalled the sensation from last night when he was with the hot milf Ragini, kissing her—her taste, the feel of her breasts, and the softness of her hands as she gripped his shaft.
He imagined the squishy texture of her big breasts, perfect for his shaft to be played with between them.
Then an image popped into his head, of his huge dick rubbing between her milky breasts while she shamelessly licked the tip with her tongue and took it inside.
He imagined how wonderful it would be to shove his full length deep down her mouth, choking her as he grabbed her head and drilled it down her throat, while her light brown nipples brushed against his knees.
He increased his pace, leaning against the wall for support, calling her name with guttural moans.
Then he recalled her last words when he had exclaimed, "Sir, please give it to me," but his mind auto-replaced them with, "Son, please give it to me."
The taboo roleplay excited his nerves, and he felt a stretch in his veins. He imagined his cum spilling over her beautiful face, marking her mouth, neck, and the curves of her breasts as it sprawled down.
He couldn't resist the urge to climax with this dark fantasy and exploded, splattering five to six times on the wall. The thick cum quickly filled the bathroom with its musky scent.
Fantasy or not, the fapping was successful with no serious issues. The sad part was that he could only imagine the sensation—not actually feel it.
"Damn, now I have to wash this off," he muttered, using an extra flush of the shower to clear everything away. The good part was that his mind felt clear of all trauma.
Then it hit him.
'Damn, why am I taking so long to fuck her? It's not like she's my real mother or that she even seems to care about kissing me.'
As he applied the soap, his body moved with practiced ease, but his mind was racing, trying to connect all the dots of what he was going through.
Suddenly, a realization dawned on him, and his throat went dry with panic.
'Wait… don't tell me.'