Keshav opened January first.
The Word file was colder than the pictures. Age. Married or not. How they found him. Hotel or flat. What they paid. What they asked for next time. UPI snaps. Cash counted on a bedsheet. Voice notes in which women did not say Bhaiya. They said Vivek. They said abhi mat ja. They said kal bhi nikal lena.
Then the videos.
One was a woman from third year he had seen near the library steps. In the recording the hostel kurta was gone. She was on her knees on this same flat’s floor, mouth wet, taking him to the base while her phone filmed the mirror. She gagged, pulled off, asked him to hold her hair, went back down. No worship-name. Only breath and aur. When he put her on the bed she kept her legs open and told him not to be gentle. The camera caught her face when she came — the same face that borrowed notes in daylight.
Another folder: a woman from outside campus, someone Keshav had seen once on Instagram, once in a car near Sigra. In the video she sucked him in a hotel chair as if she had paid for the right to be greedy. She looked up only to tell him to fuck her mouth properly. Later he had her from behind against the wardrobe, her palm leaving a print on the glass. She asked for more when he slowed. She asked again after he finished, voice rough, ek aur baar, Vivek.
A married woman in a folder marked only with a date. Call recording first: a low voice booking the evening, saying the husband was in Lucknow. In the video she undressed herself. She took him in her mouth with jewellery still on, then sat on him and moved like a person who did not want to waste rented time. She told him to mark her where the sari would hide it. She told him to record. She watched the screen while he fucked her and said tez. When she came she laughed once, stunned, and asked whether next week could be two hours.
There were more.
A day-scholar from commerce whose laugh Keshav knew from the canteen. In stills she was on this bed, lipstick smeared, chest bare, looking at the lens without shame. In the video she sucked him slowly at first, then faster when he told her to, spit on her chin. She climbed on him and asked him not to pull out. She said andar. She said please. She never called him the campus name.
A woman from town, older, careful in the Word file, expensive in the payment shot. The film showed her on her back, legs over his shoulders, asking him to go deeper. Then her on her knees again, thanking him with her mouth, then asking if he could come to a different hotel next time because this one knew her driver.
Keshav watched the way other boys watched porn, except it was not porn. It was Banaras. It was corridors he walked. It was a scooty he had seen parked under a tree. His body answered before his mind finished naming the danger. He opened his jeans. The first time he finished fast, on a clip of the third-year girl swallowing and then asking him to fuck her throat again. He wiped the desk with a tissue from Vivek’s drawer. He did not close the laptop.
