The humid air of Dhaka wrapped around me like a lover's sticky embrace, clinging to every inch of my exposed skin and seeping through the lightweight silk of my shalwar-kameez. It was oppressive, that heat—thick and unrelenting, making my body glisten with a fine sheen of sweat that trickled down the curve of my spine, pooling at the small of my back where my narrow waist met the flare of my wide, curvaceous hips. I hurried across the university campus in Gulshan, my vibrant outfit fluttering like a seductive whisper with each purposeful step. The kameez, a deep emerald green that day, was tailored to perfection—fitted snugly enough to accentuate my hourglass figure, hugging my small, perky breasts and cinching at my slender midriff before billowing out over my plump, jiggling ass. The matching salwar pants whispered sensually against my shapely thighs, the fabric caressing my toned legs like a teasing hand, while my dupatta—a sheer scarlet scarf—draped loosely over my shoulders, swaying rhythmically and occasionally brushing against the sensitive peaks of my nipples through the thin material. It caught the late afternoon breeze, carrying with it the distant symphony of Dhaka's chaos: the insistent honks of rickshaws jostling for space on the potholed roads, the chatter of street vendors hawking everything from sizzling jhal muri to glittering bangles, and the faint, tantalizing aroma of spices wafting from nearby food stalls. I adored how this ensemble blended the graceful traditions of my Bengali heritage with a bold, modern edge—the silk was cool against the city's merciless humidity, a respite for my flushed skin, and I paired it all with my favorite black high heels. They clicked sharply on the cracked pavement, elongating my long, elegant legs and adding that irresistible sway to my stride, making my hips roll in a way that always drew lingering glances from passersby. Every step sent a subtle thrill through me, the heels forcing my ass to jut out just a bit more, my thighs rubbing together with a friction that hinted at the hidden desires beneath.
Class had just wrapped up, a grueling lecture on textile patterns that had stretched on far longer than it should have, the professor droning about ancient weaves and modern adaptations until my mind was a whirlwind of inspiration. I was Nusrat, an 18-year-old trans girl from the lush, misty hills of Sylhet, now chasing dreams in the fashion design program at this upscale private university. It was a world away from the serene tea gardens and quiet family life I'd left behind—Dhaka was a beast of a city, alive and chaotic, a pulsating heart of colors, sounds, and scents that both exhilarated and exhausted me. The streets beyond the campus gates teemed with life: women in vibrant saris haggling fiercely at roadside stalls over piles of ripe mangoes and shimmering fabrics, their laughter sharp and unyielding; men on battered motorcycles weaving dangerously through the gridlock, their shirts plastered to sweaty backs; children darting between legs, begging for coins or chasing after stray balloons. The air was thick with the mingling odors of spicy chaat frying in hot oil, exhaust fumes from ancient buses belching black smoke, and the underlying musk of the Buriganga River not far off, its polluted waters carrying the city's secrets downstream. This was my home now, a place where I could reinvent myself, striding through the crowds with the confidence I'd painstakingly cultivated over months of hormones and self-discovery. My long, dark hair cascaded in silky waves down my back, occasionally tickling my exposed collarbones and sending shivers across my smooth, slender throat. I caught glimpses of myself in reflective windows as I walked—my heart-shaped face with its expressive almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes, a delicate nose, and full pouty lips glossed in a subtle pink that made them look perpetually kissable. My small pierced ears sparkled with simple studs, and my soft rounded cheeks flushed easily under the sun's gaze, a natural blush that only heightened my allure.
But beneath it all, hidden like a forbidden treasure, was my private truth: my 3½-inch cock and tight, smooth balls, tucked away in lacy panties that rubbed against them with every movement, a constant reminder of my confident femininity. It added an edge to my sensuality, a secret thrill that made me feel powerful in my own skin, even as I navigated a society that might not understand. I'd learned to own it, to let it fuel the sway in my hips and the arch in my back, turning heads without apology.
I pushed open the heavy door to the women's bathroom in the lecture hall building, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry insects, casting a harsh, unflattering glow on the chipped tiles and faded posters warning about hygiene. Thank god it was empty—on busier days, this place turned into a hive of activity, girls crowding the mirrors to touch up their kohl-lined eyes or gossip about the latest scandals, like who was hooking up with whom in the dorms or which professor was too handsy during office hours. Their chatter would fill the air, laced with giggles and whispers about crushes and heartbreaks, the scent of cheap perfumes mingling with the underlying tang of disinfectant. I always slipped in quietly, avoiding the crowds, preferring the solitude to adjust my dupatta or steal a moment to breathe amid the campus frenzy.
I chose the last cubicle, farthest from the entrance, for that extra layer of privacy. The door hooked shut with a metallic click—or so I thought. In my haste, distracted by the lingering echoes of the lecture, I must have failed to latch it properly. I hiked up my emerald kameez just enough to bunch it at my waist, the silk sliding smoothly over my skin, then tugged down my salwar pants and the delicate lacy panties beneath. They pooled at my ankles, the cool air kissing my exposed thighs and the sensitive skin between them. Settling onto the cool porcelain seat, I parted my long legs slightly for balance, my black heels tapping lightly on the tiled floor with a rhythmic echo that seemed amplified in the quiet space. Relief washed over me as I let go, the quiet trickle of my stream hitting the water below, a mundane act that felt oddly intimate in its vulnerability. My mind drifted back to the lecture, mental sketches forming of how to weave those intricate Jamdani motifs—those delicate, floral patterns hand-loomed in cotton—into a contemporary top. Maybe pair it with sheer sleeves to show off the curve of my arms, or a low neckline that would tease the swell of my small breasts. The ideas flowed like the city's endless traffic, exciting me, making my pulse quicken with creative fervor.
But that peace shattered in an instant. A faint shuffle outside the cubicle—soft footsteps on the tiles, barely audible over the buzz of the lights. Before I could react, before I could even clamp my thighs together, the door creaked open just a crack, the hinge protesting with a low groan. My heart skipped a beat, then thundered in my chest, blood rushing to my ears. There, peering in with smirks that sent ice through my veins despite the heat, were two faces I knew too well: Rahim and Karim, the arrogant jocks from the business program. They'd always been around in shared classes, their eyes raking over me like I was a prize on display. Rahim, the taller one in his mid-20s, with a muscular build that strained against his fitted shirt, short black hair slicked back to perfection, and a sharp jawline that could cut glass. His warm brown eyes held a constant spark of mischief, and he'd often lean back in his seat, manspreading shamelessly, his thighs thick and inviting under his jeans. Karim, equally mid-20s, was leaner, more wiry, with a stubble that shadowed his angular face, giving him a rugged, dangerous edge. His eyes, also warm brown but sharper, like they could pierce right through your clothes. They'd stare at my curves during lectures—the way my kameez clung to my perky tits, or how my ass filled out my salwar when I bent to pick up a dropped pen. I'd brushed it off as typical guy lust, even found it flattering in a twisted way, the attention making my nipples harden under the fabric, a secret arousal I'd push down.
Now, those eyes widened, not in outright shock, but with a predatory gleam that made my stomach twist. Rahim's phone was already raised, the flash exploding in a blinding burst. It seared my vision, and I froze, my full pouty lips parting in horror as the realization hit: they'd captured everything—me, mid-stream, my 3½-inch cock and tight, smooth balls fully exposed between my toned thighs, vulnerable and glistening slightly in the harsh light, the emerald fabric of my salwar bunched disgracefully at my ankles. My heart-shaped face must have been a picture of mortification, my expressive almond-shaped eyes wide, thick lashes fluttering in panic.
Karim leaned in closer, his lean frame blocking the door as he snapped another photo, quick and merciless. "Ei, ki dekhi eta?" he chuckled in Bengali, his voice low and mocking, dripping with wicked delight—what am I seeing here? The words hung in the air like a taunt, his stubble catching the light as he grinned.
Rahim pocketed his phone with a satisfied smirk, his muscular arms flexing as he crossed them over his broad chest. "Nusrat, tui toh ekta surprise package," he said, switching seamlessly to a mix of Bengali and English, his tone laced with dark amusement—you're a real surprise package. Their gazes raked over me, hungry and unapologetic, lingering on the exposed curve of my thighs, the way my cock twitched involuntarily under their scrutiny, my balls tightening in a mix of fear and that unwelcome spark of arousal. I felt my soft rounded cheeks flush hot, a deep crimson spreading across my skin, my small pierced ears burning beneath the simple studs as if they were on fire.
"Please," I whispered, my voice trembling as I finally yanked up my lacy panties and salwar with shaking hands, the fabric sliding over my sensitized skin, brushing against my still-exposed cock and sending an unwanted shiver through me. I adjusted everything hastily, but the damage was done. "Delete those. Please, it's not what you think—I'm just... me. This is private."
Karim shook his head, his leaner frame shifting as he leaned against the cubicle wall, his stubble scratching lightly against his collar. "Nah, nah, Nusrat. This is pure gold." His eyes dipped lower, tracing the outline of my small, perky breasts pressing against the emerald kameez, the nipples now visibly hard from the adrenaline. "Unless you want the whole campus to know about your little secret down there—the dean, your fashion design clique with their sketchbooks and dreams, even your conservative family back in Sylhet. One tap, and boom, it's viral. Imagine the whispers in the halls, the stares on your juicy ass as you walk."
My slender throat tightened, a lump forming that made it hard to swallow, as if their words were choking me. I adjusted my scarlet dupatta, draping it back over my shoulders, but it felt like a futile shield. The bathroom suddenly felt claustrophobic, the air thicker, heavy with the faint scent of cheap floral soap and their masculine cologne—something spicy and overpowering, like sandalwood mixed with sweat. It invaded my senses, making my head spin. "You can't do this," I begged again, my voice cracking, tears pricking at the corners of my almond-shaped eyes. "Rahim, Karim, please. We've shared classes—I thought you were just... flirty. Not this. What do you want? Money? I'll pay, somehow."
Rahim laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the tiles, his sharp jawline tightening as he stepped closer, his muscular build towering over me in the confined space. "Money? Nah, sweetheart. We've got something better in mind." His warm brown eyes locked onto mine, then drifted down to my full lips, as if imagining them wrapped around something else. "Meet us after hours. Empty classroom in building C, room 205. Come alone, dressed just like this—those heels making your legs look endless, that ass swaying. Or else, everyone sees what we've got."
Karim nodded, his stubble-framed grin widening, his eyes lingering shamelessly on the way my kameez clung to my narrow waist and the subtle bulge now hidden but not forgotten. "Yeah, and don't even think about telling anyone. We'll know." They exchanged a knowing look, their camaraderie evident in the way they moved in sync, like predators who'd hunted together before.
I begged more, my words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Wait, please—think about it. I'm from Sylhet, my family... they'd disown me. The university would expel me. Karim, you seem nicer in class, always joking. Rahim, you're the leader type—use that for good. Delete them, and I'll... I'll owe you a favor. Anything but this."
But they just chuckled, unmoved, their gazes heavy with lustful intent. "See you tonight, Nusrat," Rahim said, turning away. Karim blew a mocking kiss, his lean fingers waving as they left, the door swinging shut with a finality that echoed in my soul.
I stood there for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, staring at my reflection in the small, smudged mirror above the sink as I washed my trembling hands under the cold tap. The water splashed over my fingers, but it did nothing to cool the heat in my cheeks. My heart-shaped face looked pale despite the flush, my thick lashes framing eyes wide with raw fear, tears threatening to spill. I smoothed my long, dark hair, tucking a stray silky wave behind my ear, the motion mechanical, numb. What choice did I have? Run? To whom? The police in Dhaka were corrupt, and this... this was too personal, too exposing. My body, my secret, laid bare in pixels.
The streets of Dhaka outside buzzed on obliviously—vendors shouting "Cha! Gorom cha!" their voices rising above the din, rickshaw bells ringing like frantic chimes, the adhan beginning to call from nearby mosques as evening approached. I could hear it faintly through the walls, the melodic prayer weaving through the traffic's roar, a reminder of the faith and traditions that clashed with my reality.
The rest of the afternoon dragged like molasses in the heat. I retreated to the library, trying to lose myself in my sketches, the hum of students around me a distant, mocking noise. Girls whispered about dates, guys boasted about conquests, their carefree energy a stark contrast to the knot in my gut. I envied them—their unburdened laughter, the way they flirted without fear, bodies entangled in innocent hugs or stolen kisses behind bookshelves. My pencil scratched across the paper, but my mind raced: flashbacks to Sylhet, my conservative parents who thought I was just their artistic son studying away; the friends I'd made here, who admired my bold fashion without knowing the full me. And now, this blackmail, hanging over me like a storm cloud.
As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in fiery oranges and pinks over the silhouetted high-rises and minarets, I watched from the window. The campus emptied out gradually, students trickling away—some piling into sputtering auto-rickshaws at the gate, haggling over fares with drivers in lungis; others strolling arm-in-arm, chatting about weekend plans at trendy cafes in Banani or hookah spots in Dhanmondi. Their laughter floated up, light and free, while my heels clicked slower now as I gathered my things, each step heavy with dread. My dupatta fluttered like a flag of surrender, my body—once a source of pride—now a weapon turned against me. The overly sexualized undercurrent of the city pulsed around me: billboards with scantily clad models selling everything from phones to fairness creams, the subtle grind of bodies in crowded buses I'd avoided today. It all amplified my vulnerability, my cock twitching faintly in my panties at the thought of what might come, a betrayal of my own desires amid the fear.
I had no choice but to go, my long legs carrying me toward the inevitable, the sway in my hips a silent curse.
The hallway in building C was dim, the fluorescent lights flickering sporadically, casting erratic shadows that danced along the peeling walls like ghosts in the humid Dhaka evening. My dupatta felt heavier than ever, its scarlet fabric clinging to my shoulders like a burdensome shroud, dragging me down with every hesitant step. The weight of it mirrored the dread pooling in my stomach, a thick, nauseating swirl that made my narrow waist twist uncomfortably beneath the fitted emerald kameez. I could hear the distant rumble of the city outside—rickshaws clanging, vendors hawking their wares in sharp Bengali calls, the perpetual hum of life that never paused—but inside these empty corridors, it was just me, my clicking heels echoing like accusations, and the pounding of my heart in my slender throat.
I pushed open the door to room 205, the hinges creaking softly, and the click of the lock engaging behind me sealed my fate with a finality that sent a shiver racing down my spine, tingling along my curvaceous hips. But it wasn't just Rahim and Karim waiting in the dimly lit space, their silhouettes sharp against the rows of abandoned desks. Four more guys lounged against the furniture, their postures casual yet predatory, eyes lighting up with a hungry gleam as I stepped into the room. The air was thick, stale with the faint scent of chalk dust and lingering sweat from daytime classes, now charged with an undercurrent of raw anticipation. "Nusrat, right on time," Rahim said, his voice smooth and commanding as he stepped forward, his muscular build filling the space between us. He gestured lazily to the others, introducing them as if this were some casual campus meetup over chai: Asif, a stocky Bengali guy in his mid-20s with cropped hair that accentuated his broad forehead and a mischievous grin that didn't reach his calculating eyes; Tariq, taller and slimmer, his dark skin glowing faintly under the flickering lights, warm hazel eyes scanning me from head to toe with unabashed appraisal; Faisal, with a thick beard framing his round face, exuding a quiet intensity that made his presence feel like a coiled spring; and Imran, the youngest-looking among them, lean and athletic, his black hair tousled in a way that might have been boyish if not for the sharp lust in his gaze.
All Bengali males, like Rahim and Karim, bound together in their tight-knit clique that ruled the business program's social scene with arrogant ease. They surrounded me slowly, closing in like a pack, the air growing thicker with tension, heavy with the musk of their colognes mingling with the city's pervasive humidity seeping through the cracked windows. "Ki korcho eta?" I asked softly, my voice wavering on the edge of a plea—what are you doing? My expressive almond-shaped eyes darted between them, framed by thick lashes that felt heavy with unshed tears, my full pouty lips trembling slightly under the subtle pink gloss I'd applied earlier.
Karim moved with purpose, his lean frame blocking the door as he twisted the lock again for emphasis, the metallic snick echoing in the silence. "Strip," Rahim ordered, his tone brooking no argument as he pulled out his phone, the screen glowing ominously, the red recording light blinking on like a malevolent eye.
I hesitated, my narrow waist twisting as I shifted my weight in my high heels, the straps digging into my elegant feet, the elevation making my long, toned legs ache with the strain of standing still. "Please, don't—" I started, my soft rounded cheeks flushing with a mix of fear and humiliation, but the words caught in my smooth throat.
"Or the photos go out," Karim cut in sharply, waving his screen in my face. The image was blurred from the hasty snap but clear enough to damn me: my heart-shaped face frozen in shock, long dark hair disheveled, and the undeniable view of my 3½-inch cock and tight balls exposed between my shapely thighs in that cursed bathroom cubicle. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, hot and stinging, but I complied, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I reached up to untie my dupatta. The scarlet fabric whispered against my skin as I let it slide from my shoulders, pooling at my feet like a discarded veil, abandoned and forgotten on the scratched linoleum floor.
Next came the kameez—I gripped the hem with trembling fingers, lifting it slowly over my head, the silky material catching briefly on my cascading waves of long, dark hair before coming free. It revealed the lacy white bra that cupped my small, perky breasts so delicately, the thin fabric doing little to hide how my sensitive nipples were already hardening, peaking against the lace from the cool air brushing my skin and the raw nerves firing through my body. The guys murmured their approvals, low and throaty, their breaths quickening in the confined space, eyes devouring every inch of my exposed hourglass figure. "Damn, look at those curves," Asif said, his voice husky and thick with desire, his stocky frame shifting as he adjusted himself discreetly.
My salwar was next, the matching emerald pants shimmying down my wide hips with a sensual rustle, the fabric caressing my shapely thighs as I pushed them lower, stepping out of them carefully to avoid tangling in my heels. The motion made my plump ass jiggle slightly, a subtle tease that drew more groans from the group. Now standing in just my bra, panties, and high heels, I felt utterly exposed, my hourglass figure on full display under the harsh lights, every curve accentuated—the flare of my hips, the taper of my long legs, the way my toned calves flexed in the heels. The panties were thin lace, barely containing the tiny bulge of my 3½-inch cock and smooth balls, the material stretched taut over my private femininity. Tariq whistled low, a sharp sound that cut through the tension. "She's perfect," he murmured, his warm hazel eyes tracing the lines of my body with blatant hunger.
They closed in then, hands reaching out tentatively at first, testing, exploring, the air electric with their proximity. Rahim was the boldest, his strong arms pulling me into him with a possessive yank, my small breasts pressing against his chest as his lips crashed against mine in a forceful kiss. His tongue pushed past my full pouty lips without preamble, invading my mouth with rough urgency, tasting of mint and dominance as it tangled with mine. I gasped into the kiss, a muffled sound of surprise and reluctant surrender, my soft rounded cheeks flushing deeper with heat that spread down my collarbones. His hands roamed downward, bold and unapologetic, groping my plump ass through the thin lace of my panties, fingers digging into the soft, jiggling flesh with squeezes hard enough to make me whimper against his mouth, the pressure sending jolts of sensation straight to my core. "Fuck, this ass is made for grabbing," he muttered hoarsely against my throat, his breath hot and ragged on my smooth skin, lips trailing wet kisses along the slender column, nipping at the sensitive spot just below my small pierced ears.
Karim came up behind me, sandwiching me between their heated bodies, his palms landing on my ass cheeks with sharp, resounding slaps that echoed through the empty classroom like cracks of thunder. Each spank sent a stinging burn radiating through my flesh, the pain blooming into a warm redness that made my plump cheeks quiver and clench. I yelped softly with every impact, the sounds mingling with their chuckles, my body arching involuntarily between them. "Bend over the table," Asif commanded, his stocky frame pushing me forward with a firm hand on my narrow waist, guiding me toward the nearest wooden desk.
I complied, my long legs straight and locked, heels planted firmly on the floor as I leaned over the cool surface, the edge digging into my hips. My long hair fell forward like a silky curtain, brushing the desk as I braced myself. They didn't waste time—hands yanked down my panties in one swift, rough motion, the lace tearing slightly with a soft rip as it slid over my curvaceous hips and down my toned calves, pooling around my ankles. My 3½-inch cock sprang free, twitching slightly in the open air, my tight balls hanging smooth and vulnerable below. There was a pause then, a collective intake of breath as their eyes widened, taking in the sight—the anticipated revelation nestled between my shapely thighs.
Rahim's fingers traced it first, hesitant but curious, his touch light and exploratory along the length, making me shiver uncontrollably, a gasp escaping my parted lips. "So smooth and girly... doesn't feel that out of place," he said, his voice low and intrigued, fingers lingering to stroke gently, coaxing a reluctant throb from my tiny cock. The sensation was electric, a mix of vulnerability and spark that made my balls tighten. "But shit, it's kinda hot." Karim nodded from behind, his unease melting into a wicked grin as he leaned in closer. "Yeah, adds to the fun," he agreed, his hand joining Rahim's for a moment, cupping my smooth balls with a gentle squeeze that drew another whimper from me. No rejection, just acceptance laced with heightened lust, their touches turning bolder, more insistent.
Fingers probed my ass then, rough and insistent, no lube at first to ease the way. Asif's thick digits pushed in without mercy, stretching my tight ring with a burning friction that made me gasp sharply, my body tensing around the intrusion. "Ahh, fuck," I moaned, the pain sharp and immediate, mingling with a spark of unwanted arousal that built low in my belly, my narrow waist arching as he twisted his fingers deeper, scissoring them to open me up. The burn spread, a fiery ache that had my plump ass clenching rhythmically, my long legs trembling slightly in my heels as I gripped the desk for support.
The gangbang ignited from there, a whirlwind of hands and bodies that consumed me. Rahim dropped his pants with a hurried zipper, his thick, veiny 7-inch cock springing free, curved slightly upward and already throbbing with need. He grabbed a fistful of my long hair, yanking me down to my knees on the cold, unforgiving floor, the impact jarring my knees and making my small breasts bounce in their lacy confines. "Suck it," he growled, his voice rough with command, guiding my head forward until my full pouty lips brushed the swollen head.
I parted my lips tentatively, taking him in with a slow swirl of my tongue around the salty tip, savoring the musky flavor as I hollowed my cheeks. But he wasn't patient—he thrust forward abruptly, forcing his length down my throat in one deep push that made me gag, my thick lashes clumping with fresh tears streaming down my heart-shaped face. The stretch in my throat was intense, a burning fullness that had me choking around him, saliva dripping from the corners of my mouth as he held my head in place. "Take it all, slut," he grunted, his hips pumping with relentless rhythm, fucking my mouth deep and hard, the salty taste of pre-cum coating my tongue with every withdrawal and plunge. My hands braced on his thighs for balance, feeling the muscles flex under my fingers, my own body rocking with the force, my sensitive nipples rubbing frustratingly against the lace bra.
Behind me, Karim positioned himself with a knee nudging my legs wider, his hands spreading my plump cheeks wide, exposing my puckered entrance to the cool air. Another sharp slap landed on my already reddened flesh, the sting making me jolt forward onto Rahim's cock, deepening the throat-fuck unintentionally. Then, the head of Karim's cock—maybe 6 inches, straight and thick, pulsing with heat—pressed against my tight ring. He slammed in without warning, the dry friction igniting a firestorm of burn that tore a muffled scream from my throat around Rahim's length. "Shit, so tight," Karim groaned, his voice strained as he buried himself to the hilt, the fullness stretching me mercilessly, my inner walls clenching around the invasion.
My body rocked between them, caught in their dual rhythm, Rahim's thrusts down my throat syncing with Karim's rough, unrelenting pounds into my ass. The slap of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with my gagged moans and their heavy grunts. My small breasts heaved in the bra with each impact, nipples hardening to aching points as they rubbed against the fabric, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through my chest. My own cock twitched against my thigh, bouncing with the force, balls tightening as unwanted pleasure built from the friction against my prostate, a deep, throbbing heat that made my shapely thighs quiver.
They kept at it for what felt like an eternity, Karim's hands gripping my wide hips hard enough to bruise, pulling me back onto his cock with every thrust, the burn slowly evolving into a slick, heated glide as my body adjusted, natural lubrication easing the way. Rahim's fingers tangled tighter in my long hair, controlling the depth of my suck, forcing me to take him to the base repeatedly, my nose buried in his pubic hair, inhaling his musky scent. Tears blurred my vision, but through the haze, I could see the others watching, stroking themselves, their eyes dark with envy and arousal. The room grew warmer, sweat beading on my smooth skin, trickling down my collarbones and between my perky breasts.
Finally, after minutes of this intense dual assault that left my throat raw and my ass aching with a delicious burn, Asif pulled Rahim aside with a gruff "My turn." His stocky hands eased me up from my knees, my lips swollen and glistening from the abuse, then guided me back down onto the floor with a gentle but firm push. He knelt behind me as I positioned myself on all fours, my long hair falling like a dark curtain around my face, brushing the cold linoleum. Asif's strong grip on my wide hips steadied me, his cock—about 6½ inches with a pronounced, bulbous head that promised extra stretch—aligned with my now-slick entrance. He pushed in steadily, the earlier fingering and fucking helping to ease the way, but the girth still made me cry out, a sharp moan that echoed off the desks. "Fuck me harder," I whimpered, the words tumbling out coerced by fear, but my body responding traitorously, arching back to meet him.
Tariq stepped in front, his taller frame towering as he grabbed my head, his 7-inch shaft veiny and throbbing hotly in his hand. He guided it to my mouth, thrusting in to throat-fuck me with the same ruthless pace, his grunts mixing with the wet slap of Asif's hips against my plump ass. The pronounced head of Asif's cock dragged along my inner walls with every deep plunge, hitting my prostate in rhythmic bursts that sent waves of ecstasy crashing through me, my tiny cock leaking pre-cum onto the floor below, balls drawing up tight. I rocked between them, my hourglass figure undulating, small tits jiggling in the bra, nipples sensitive and begging for touch. Asif's thrusts grew faster, harder, his fingers digging into my curvaceous hips, spanking my cheeks sporadically to heighten the sting, the red marks blooming anew.
The room smelled thickly of sweat and arousal now, the distant Dhaka traffic a faint, irrelevant hum through the windows, drowned out by the symphony of flesh meeting flesh. Sweat slicked my skin, making my long legs glisten as they braced on the floor, heels scraping slightly with each backward push. Tariq's hands in my hair pulled tight, controlling my head as he fucked my throat deeper, the veins on his shaft pulsing against my tongue, the salty drip of pre-cum a constant taste. My expressive eyes watered, half-lidded in a haze of sensation, the pain in my ass blending seamlessly into pleasure, my body betraying me with every clench around Asif's length.
They lifted me next, strong arms hoisting me from the floor like I weighed nothing, carrying me to a nearby desk where the wood was cool against my heated skin. Faisal took charge, laying me on my back with deliberate care, his bearded face intense as he hooked my long legs over his broad shoulders, my heels dangling in the air, pointing toward the ceiling. The position exposed my puckered hole fully, slick and winking from the previous assaults, my tight balls and twitching cock on display below. His cock, thick and 8 inches long, straight as an arrow and veined prominently, aligned with precision, the head nudging my entrance before he pushed in slowly at first, inch by torturous inch, the fullness making my narrow waist arch off the desk in a bow of surrender. "Oh god, you're stretching me," I moaned, my voice breathy and broken, as he bottomed out, his hips slamming against my plump ass with a resounding smack.
The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that filled me completely, his thickness pressing against every sensitive spot inside. He groped my small tits through the bra, rough fingers pinching my sensitive nipples until they throbbed, sending jolts straight to my core. Then he leaned down, his beard scratching my soft cheeks as he claimed my mouth in sloppy, wet kisses, tongue delving deep while his hips rolled in a grinding rhythm, not just thrusting but circling, dragging his length along my walls in prolonged strokes that built the pleasure agonizingly slow. My shapely thighs clamped around his sides, heels digging into his back as I pulled him closer, the friction of his body against mine making my own cock throb untouched, pre-cum pooling on my stomach.
Faisal's pace built gradually, from those deep, languid grinds to faster slams, his balls slapping against my ass with each powerful drive, the desk creaking under us. Sweat dripped from his brow onto my collarbones, trickling down to my heaving breasts, the lace bra soaked now. I moaned into his kisses, my full lips bruised from the earlier abuse, tongue tangling with his in a messy dance. The others watched, their hands stroking their cocks, waiting their turns, the air heavy with their collective arousal.
Imran swapped in seamlessly, his lean body sliding into place as Faisal withdrew with a wet pop, flipping me around without fully disengaging from the haze of sensation. He guided me to straddle him in reverse, my back pressing against his chest as I lowered myself onto his 6-inch cock, curved downward in a way that hit my prostate with perfect, unrelenting pressure. My plump ass cheeks spread wide around him, jiggling with each slow sink until I was fully seated, the curve grinding deep inside. "Ride me, yeah, like that," he murmured, his hands on my curvaceous hips guiding the rhythm, lifting and dropping me in controlled bounces that made my long hair sway, strands sticking to my sweat-slicked back.
The angle was intense, his curve massaging my inner spot with every up and down, sparks of pleasure exploding through me, my tiny cock bouncing stiffly, leaking steadily now. He spanked my ass cheeks rhythmically, the slaps ringing out sharp and echoing, each one making my flesh quiver and clench around him tighter. My long legs spread wide for balance, shapely thighs straining as I rode harder, faster, driven by his hands and the building ecstasy. Imran's breaths came hot against my neck, his lips nipping at my smooth throat, one hand sneaking around to tweak my nipples through the bra, pinching until I cried out.
The demands escalated as the pleasure mounted, Rahim circling with his phone, capturing every angle—the way my hourglass figure writhed atop Imran, expressive eyes half-lidded in a mix of pain and ecstasy, full lips parted in constant moans. "Beg for more, Nusrat," he taunted, the red light unblinking.
"Please... more," I whimpered, hating the words that spilled from my lips but fearing the alternative more, my body a vessel of their desires. They pulled me up then, hands everywhere lifting me from Imran's lap with a slick withdrawal that left me aching and empty, guiding me into a standing position where they bent me over a nearby chair. The wooden backrest pressed into my narrow waist as I gripped it, my long legs spread, heels planted wide. Tariq stepped behind me, his taller frame looming as he aligned his cock—veiny and 7 inches—with my slick, stretched entrance, thrusting in deep with a grinding motion that filled me anew, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles to prolong the sensation.
Each grind pressed him deeper, his length dragging along my sensitive walls, hitting that spot over and over until I was moaning uncontrollably, my plump ass pushing back against him for more. Faisal knelt in front, his intense eyes locked on mine as he fingered my tight balls, rolling them in his palm with gentle squeezes that made them ache deliciously, his other hand stroking my tiny cock in firm, slow tugs. Pre-cum slicked his fingers, making the glide smooth and torturous, building me toward an edge I didn't want but couldn't resist. Tariq's thrusts grew harder, his hands spanking my hips sporadically, the stings adding layers to the overload, my body trembling between them as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in my core. The classroom faded, nothing but the sensations—the stretch, the strokes, the slaps—consuming me in their endless, sexualized grip.
Karim's hands were rough on my wide hips as he guided me onto his lap, the sturdy chair creaking under our combined weight in the dimly lit classroom. The air was thick with the scent of our sweat and the faint musk of arousal that had built up over the evening, mingling with the distant hum of Dhaka's night traffic filtering through the cracked windows. His cock, still slick from the earlier pounding, pressed insistently against my stretched entrance, the head nudging past the ring of muscle with ease now that my body had been so thoroughly used. "Sit on it, you filthy whore," he commanded, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine, my slender throat bobbing as I swallowed hard.
I lowered myself slowly, inch by agonizing inch, feeling the thick shaft slide deeper into my ass, filling me with that familiar burn that had morphed into a craving ache. My plump ass cheeks spread wide against his thighs, jiggling softly as I settled fully, my narrow waist arching instinctively to accommodate the intrusion. Waves of heat radiated from where we connected, my inner walls clenching around him involuntarily, gripping his length like a vice. "Ahh, fuck, you're so deep," I moaned, my full pouty lips parting in a gasp, my expressive almond-shaped eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the pressure built, pressing against my prostate and sending sparks of unwanted pleasure shooting through my core. My small, perky breasts heaved with each breath, the lacy bra still clinging to them, though it felt like a useless barrier now, my sensitive nipples rubbing against the fabric, hardening into tight peaks.
Asif didn't waste time. He approached from behind, his stocky frame casting a shadow over us, knees bending slightly to align himself perfectly. His hands gripped my narrow waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, bruising in their intensity. The tip of his cock, hot and throbbing, nudged against the already-stuffed entrance, probing insistently. "Relax, bitch, or it'll hurt more," he muttered, his breath hot against the back of my neck, stirring the silky waves of my long, dark hair. I tried to breathe, to loosen up, but the pressure was immense—a searing stretch that built layer by layer as he inched forward, his shaft sliding alongside Karim's, forcing my ass to accommodate both of them in a way that felt impossible, like I was being split open from the inside.
"Fuck, it's too much! You're tearing me apart!" I cried out, my voice breaking into a whimper, tears welling up behind my thick lashes. But they didn't stop; instead, they began to thrust in unison, their hips moving in a synchronized rhythm that had me rocking between them. Karim's hands slid up to squeeze my supple thighs, spreading them wider over his lap, while Asif's palms roamed to my rounded ass, kneading the jiggling flesh with rough squeezes that left red marks. Their cocks rubbed against each other inside me, the friction creating a delicious, twisted burn that mingled pain with ecstasy, each push grinding relentlessly against my prostate. My 3½-inch cock twitched helplessly between my legs, leaking pre-cum onto Karim's stomach, my tight balls drawing up as the sensations overwhelmed me.
We stayed locked like that for what felt like an eternity, the chair groaning under the force of their movements. Karim's thrusts came from below, short and sharp, lifting my wide hips slightly with each upward jab, while Asif pounded from behind, his body slamming against my plump cheeks with wet, echoing slaps. Hands were everywhere—Karim yanking off my bra with a rip, exposing my small breasts to the cool air, his fingers pinching my taut nipples until they throbbed, sending jolts straight to my core. "Pinch them harder, make her squeal," Asif grunted, his own hands sliding around to grope my quivering thighs, nails scraping the smooth skin. The pain from the stretch faded gradually into a throbbing ecstasy, my ass clenching around their dual invasion, milking them as waves of pleasure crashed over me. "Shit, your ass is gripping us so good, like it was made for this," Asif groaned, his voice ragged, sweat dripping from his brow onto my back.
My heart-shaped face flushed deeper, soft rounded cheeks burning with humiliation and heat, as I bounced between them, my long legs trembling in my high heels, still planted awkwardly on the floor for leverage. Every thrust sent my hourglass figure undulating, my narrow waist twisting, wide hips grinding down instinctively. I could feel their cocks pulsing inside me, the veiny textures rubbing against my sensitive walls, hitting spots that made stars burst behind my eyes. "Oh god, don't stop... fuck me deeper," I begged through gritted teeth, the words spilling out unbidden, my body betraying me even as my mind reeled from the coercion.
Eventually, their rhythm slowed, breaths coming in heavy pants, and they eased out with wet pops that left me feeling empty and aching. But there was no respite. Tariq stepped forward, his lean frame towering as he spat into his palm, rubbing the meager lube over his hand. He pushed me back slightly, still on the chair but now with my legs spread wide, exposing my gaping entrance. "Take it all, you greedy slut," he said, his warm hazel eyes locked on mine as he worked his fingers in—first three, twisting and scissoring to stretch me wider, the spit barely easing the friction. I gasped, the intrusion sharp and unrelenting, my plump ass clenching around his digits.
He added a fourth, pushing deeper, knuckle by knuckle, the pressure building to an overwhelming fullness that had me arching off the chair. "Scream for me," he murmured, his free hand stroking my shapely thigh, tracing the curve up to where my tiny cock bobbed. The fist buried deep finally, his wrist disappearing inside me, and I screamed, the sound raw and echoing off the classroom walls—a mix of agony and that deep, prostate-pounding pleasure that made my vision blur. My inner walls stretched impossibly, every twist of his hand sending shockwaves through me, the burn fading into a pulsating throb that had my balls tightening, pre-cum dribbling freely.
Faisal didn't let me focus on it alone. He shoved his thick cock down my throat, silencing my cries, his hips pumping as he throat-fucked me with brutal force. "That's it, choke on it," he growled, his beard scratching my chin as he buried himself deep, my full lips stretched wide around his girth. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with saliva that dripped onto my heaving breasts. He pulled out briefly, pressing his heavy balls against my lips. "Suck my balls too, lick them clean," he ordered, and I obeyed, my tongue lapping at the musky, salty skin, swirling around the smooth sacs while Tariq's fist twisted inside me, grinding against my prostate in slow, deliberate circles. The dual sensations were maddening—my ass filled to the brim, my mouth occupied, every nerve ending alight with fire.
Tariq worked his fist for ages, pulling back slightly only to plunge deeper, his arm muscles flexing as he rotated his wrist, exploring every inch of my stretched hole. "Feel that? You're so open now, taking my whole hand like a pro," he taunted, his fingers curling inside to press harder on that sensitive spot, making my body convulse. Faisal alternated between throat-fucking and ball-sucking, his gropes on my tight balls adding to the overload, squeezing them gently at first, then harder, rolling them in his palm until I whimpered around his flesh.
When they finally withdrew, my body was a trembling mess, but they weren't done. Hands grabbed me, lifting and maneuvering until I was laid across two desks pushed together, my legs hooked high over my head, folding me in half. My long hair splayed out beneath me like a dark halo, sticky with sweat, and everything was exposed—my gaping ass, twitching cock, and flushed skin under the harsh classroom lights. Imran took over now, his athletic build leaning in as he spat more lube onto his hand, working it in with the same brutal efficiency. "Let's see how deep we can go," he said, his fingers diving in first, then his knuckles, pushing past the resistance until his fist was engulfed.
The sensation was a whirlwind of agony and intense pressure, his hand twisting slowly at first, then faster, knuckles grazing my prostate with every rotation. "Ahh, fuck, it's too deep!" I wailed, my expressive eyes wide, tears spilling freely. Rahim hovered close, his phone zooming in, capturing every detail—the way my heart-shaped face contorted, parted lips gasping, flushed cheeks glowing. "Look at that face, so pretty when you're wrecked," he said, his free hand tracing my collarbones, dipping down to tweak a nipple. Imran's fist pumped in and out now, shallow at first, then deeper, the slick sounds filling the room, my body rocking with each motion, legs quivering in the air, heels dangling uselessly.
He varied the pace—slow withdrawals that left me begging for more despite myself, then sudden plunges that stole my breath. The pressure built relentlessly, my prostate throbbing under the assault, waves of ecstasy crashing over the pain until I was lost in it, my narrow waist arching off the desk, wide hips straining. "Twist it harder, make her cum from it," Faisal suggested from the side, and Imran obliged, curling his fingers inside, massaging that spot until my tiny cock leaked steadily, balls aching with need.
From there, the shift felt seamless, bodies moving around me in a haze of lust. Faisal grabbed my arms, pulling me down to the floor with him, his back against the cool tiles as he positioned me above him. I straddled his thick thighs facing him, my knees digging into the ground, and sank down onto his waiting cock, the anal entry smooth now from all the stretching. "Ride me, you horny bitch," he grunted, his hands clamping onto my wide hips, guiding me up and down in a relentless rhythm. My hourglass figure bounced with each descent, plump ass slapping against his skin, the force jiggling my flesh hypnotically.
"Faster, slut, grind that ass," he demanded, spanking my thigh with a sharp crack that stung like fire, the pain spiking the pleasure as I picked up speed. His cock filled me completely, the thick girth stretching my walls, hitting deep with every bounce. I leaned forward, my small breasts dangling in his face, and he latched onto a nipple, sucking hard while his fingers dug into my curvaceous hips, controlling the pace. The rhythm built, my long legs flexing, shapely thighs quivering slightly as I rode him, my own cock slapping against his stomach with wet smacks, leaking profusely.
We stayed in that frenzy for what seemed like hours, his hips bucking up to meet mine, the classroom echoing with our grunts and the slap of skin. "Your pussy-ass is so wet for this," he teased, one hand sliding to stroke my twitching shaft, thumb circling the head slick with pre-cum. The added stimulation had me moaning louder, my full lips forming pleas I couldn't hold back.
Without breaking the connection, hands helped reposition us—Tariq easing in from the side as we rolled onto a nearby bench, my body now sideways, spooned against his lean form. He lifted one of my shapely legs high, draping it over his arm to expose me further, and re-entered with a smooth thrust, his cock sliding deep into my ass. "That's it, take every inch," he whispered against my ear, his breath hot on my smooth throat. His free hand wrapped around my tiny cock, stroking it in time with his pounds, the dual action making my body shudder.
"Your little dick is hard for this, throbbing in my hand," he teased, his pumps rough and deep, hips slamming against my plump ass with each drive. The bench creaked under us, my long hair tangling beneath my head, as he varied the angle—shallow teases followed by full, brutal plunges that ground against my prostate. I writhed in his hold, the leg he held quivering, thigh muscles taut, as pleasure coiled tighter, my balls tightening under his occasional gropes.
The group pulled me up then, bodies pressing close in a tangle of limbs. Imran and Asif sandwiched me between them standing, my legs wrapping around Imran's waist as he hoisted me up, his strong arms supporting my weight. Their cocks aligned at my entrance, pushing in together with coordinated effort, the double stretch reigniting that burning fullness. "Fuck, stretching you wide open again," Asif said from behind, his hips slamming forward, the force making my plump ass jiggle against him.
Imran's thrusts came from the front, lifting me slightly with each upward motion, while Asif pounded from the rear, their rhythms syncing into a punishing cadence. Kisses peppered my neck from both sides, wet and sloppy, teeth nipping at my collarbones, while hands groped everywhere—squeezing my rounded ass, pinching my perky tits until the nipples ached deliciously. "Squeeze us tighter, you love being filled like this," Imran groaned, his cock rubbing against Asif's inside me, the friction sending endless waves of ecstasy through my core. My twitching cock pressed between our bodies, leaking onto his shirt, as they kept up the assault, sweat-slicked skin sliding together.
Another fluid adjustment had me suspended between Rahim and Karim, my arms pinned behind me in a tight hold by Rahim, his muscular frame pressing against my back. My legs spread wide, heels kicking lightly in the air, as they alternated thrusts into my ass—Rahim first, pulling me back onto his thick shaft, then Karim stepping in for a deep plunge from the front. "Expose that pretty cock, let it twitch for us," Karim said, his hands spreading my thighs further, the position leaving me completely vulnerable, my hourglass figure on full display.
They traded off seamlessly, each thrust alternating, the air thick with their sweat and my desperate moans. Rahim's grip on my arms tightened, arching my narrow waist, while Karim's palms roamed to my small breasts, rolling the sensitive nipples between his fingers. The back-and-forth built to a fever pitch, my prostate pummeled relentlessly, body quaking in their hold. "Moan louder, slut, tell us how much you need it," Rahim demanded, his cock slamming deep on his turn.
Finally, Faisal claimed me once more, easing me down but keeping the intensity high. His fist pushed in rough and deep, twisting with deliberate slowness at first, then faster, knuckles grazing every sensitive inch. "One last time, feel me wreck you," he murmured, his hand pumping in and out, the fullness leaving me a quivering, sobbing mess on the floor. Waves of mixed agony and bliss washed over me, my ass clenching around his wrist, prostate throbbing until I thought I'd shatter.
As the peak neared, they arranged me on my knees in the center of their circle, bodies looming. I sucked each in rotation—starting with Rahim, his thick cock shoving down my throat, fucking it deep until I gagged, tears streaming. Then Karim, his length sliding in, hips pumping as I swirled my tongue around the head, tasting the salt of pre-cum. Around the circle I went, throat-fucked by each—Asif's pronounced head bulging my cheeks, Tariq's veiny shaft pulsing on my tongue, Faisal's thickness stretching my lips, Imran's curve hitting the back of my throat. "Get us ready, suck harder," they commanded, hands in my long hair, guiding the motions until their breaths grew ragged.
"Open wide," Rahim finally said, pulling out. I knelt there, face upturned, my heart-shaped face flushed and tear-streaked, long hair sticky with sweat and saliva. They jerked off around me, hot ropes of cum splattering in thick bursts—first landing on my full lips, salty and warm, then coating my cheeks in sticky trails, dripping down my slender throat to pool on my small breasts, the liquid cooling on my heated skin. I turned as directed, more shots hitting my plump ass, running down the curves in rivulets. My own cock leaked untouched, a steady drip of pre-cum pooling beneath me, the denial adding to the humiliation.
As they dressed, zipping up pants and straightening shirts, Karim pocketed his phone with a smirk. "This is just the start, Nusrat. Delete nothing—we'll call you again." They filed out one by one, leaving the door ajar, the hallway's cool air rushing in. I remained there on the floor, cum-dripping and sore, every muscle aching, my bold fashion sense reduced to rags scattered around me—the emerald kameez crumpled, scarlet dupatta tangled, heels kicked aside. I cleaned up in a daze, wiping away the evidence with trembling hands, the sticky residue clinging to my skin like a brand. Knowing my life in Dhaka was now theirs, the blackmail tape sealed it—my secret, my body, forever at their mercy.
Copyright © 2025 LilMissNusrat. All rights reserved.
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