The humid air of Dhaka wrapped around me like a lover's possessive embrace, thick and unrelenting, making my skin glisten with a faint sheen of sweat as I navigated the university campus. It was late afternoon, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows that danced across the cracked concrete pathways like fleeting secrets. The campus was alive with the chaotic symphony of student life—rickshaws honking insistently as they weaved through the iron gates, their bells tinkling like impatient flirtations; groups of young men and women clustered under the ancient banyan trees, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of traffic from the bustling streets beyond. Vendors hawked spicy chaat and sweet mishti doi from makeshift carts, the aromas of cumin and jaggery teasing my senses, reminding me of the vibrant pulse of this city that never truly slept. Dhaka, with its endless sprawl of high-rises piercing the smoggy horizon and narrow alleys teeming with life, had become my sanctuary since I left Sylhet two years ago. Back there, the whispers had been suffocating—stares that dissected my every move, judging the sway in my step, the softness of my features. Here, amid the anonymity of millions, I could finally breathe, could let my true self bloom like a lotus in the muddy waters of the Buriganga River.
I adjusted the flowing dupatta over my shoulder, its vibrant red silk whispering against my arm with each graceful stride, a bold splash of color against the muted tones of the campus buildings. My shalwar-kameez clung to my curves in all the right ways, the kameez fitted snugly around my narrow waist, accentuating the flare of my wide hips that swayed hypnotically with every step. The shalwar swished teasingly around my shapely thighs, the fabric brushing against my smooth skin like a lover's fingertips, while my favorite high heels—sleek black stilettos that added inches to my 5'6" frame—clicked rhythmically on the pavement, elongating my long, toned legs and injecting that extra seductive rhythm into my walk. Heads turned, as they often did; a group of boys near the fountain paused their conversation, their eyes tracing the jiggle of my plump ass beneath the flowing fabric, the subtle bounce of my small, perky breasts straining against the kameez's neckline. I caught my reflection in the glass pane of a nearby administrative building: my long, dark hair cascading in silky waves down my back, framing my heart-shaped face where my almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick lashes, sparkled with a mix of focus and quiet defiance. My delicate nose flared slightly with the humid air, my small pierced ears glinting with simple silver studs, and my full pouty lips, glossed in a subtle pink that made them look perpetually kissable, curved into a determined smile. Beneath it all, tucked away in my lace panties, my 3½-inch cock and tight, smooth balls added a private thrill, a secret layer to my confident femininity that made every glance feel like a delicious game.
Today was crucial—our group project on urban development was hurtling toward its deadline, and as the self-appointed leader, I thrived on the responsibility. It was my way of proving myself, of showing that I belonged in this academic world, far from the stifling traditions of my hometown. I quickened my pace, heels echoing like a heartbeat, dodging a cluster of students debating politics under a shaded pavilion. The campus, part of one of Dhaka's private universities, was a microcosm of the city's contrasts: modern glass facades juxtaposed with crumbling colonial-era structures, lush green lawns interrupted by potholed roads where monsoon puddles still lingered from last night's rain. Overhead, kites soared lazily, piloted by children from the nearby slums that encroached on the university's edges, a reminder that privilege here was always bordered by poverty.
Pushing through the heavy doors of the library, I was enveloped in a cool rush of air-conditioned bliss, a stark contrast to the sticky heat outside. The halls were a sanctuary of quiet intensity, filled with the soft rustle of turning pages, the faint click-clack of keyboards, and the low hum of laptops whirring like contented bees. Shelves towered high, crammed with dusty tomes on everything from ancient Bengali literature to cutting-edge engineering texts, their spines a rainbow of faded colors. Students hunched over tables, some whispering in hushed tones about upcoming exams, others stealing glances at their phones for the latest cricket scores or Bollywood gossip. I inhaled deeply, the scent of old paper and polished wood grounding me, as I made my way to the reserved study room at the back. My dupatta swayed gently with the motion, brushing against my collarbones, exposed just enough by the kameez's modest V-neck to draw admiring eyes.
The room itself was a cozy nook, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs that cast a warm, intimate glow over the scattered notes, colorful charts, and open laptops on the long wooden table. It felt almost like a private chamber, isolated from the main library's bustle, with walls lined in corkboards pinned with forgotten flyers for cultural festivals and job fairs. Three familiar faces were already there, their presence adding a layer of camaraderie to the space. Aisha, a bubbly Bengali girl in her early 20s, sat cross-legged on a chair, her curly black hair bouncing as she giggled at something on her phone. Her infectious laugh could light up the dreariest monsoon day, and her warm, round face with sparkling hazel eyes always made me feel welcome. She was from a middle-class family in Old Dhaka, the kind that ran small businesses passed down through generations, and her stories often painted vivid pictures of the city's underbelly.
Next to her was Tariq, a lanky Bengali guy around 19, his messy hair falling into his eyes as he typed furiously on his laptop, glasses perpetually sliding down his narrow nose. He had that awkward charm of a boy still growing into his frame—tall but gangly, with a shy smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth. From a suburban neighborhood in Mirpur, he was the tech whiz of our group, always tinkering with apps or debating the merits of sustainable tech in urban planning.
And then there was Rasheed, the senior who'd joined our project late, lounging back in his chair with an air of effortless confidence. In his mid-20s, he was tall and muscular, his build honed from hours at the campus gym or perhaps playing football on the dusty fields nearby. His short black hair was cropped close, accentuating his sharp jawline that could cut glass, and his warm brown eyes held a politeness that bordered on calculated charm. Bengali through and through, he carried that typical Dhaka swagger—the kind born from navigating the city's cutthroat traffic and social hierarchies. "Hey, Nusrat," he said, his voice smooth and velvety, like aged whiskey, as he looked up from his notes. His gaze lingered a beat too long on the way my kameez accentuated my small, perky breasts, the fabric hugging their subtle swell, nipples faintly outlined in the cool air. I felt a faint flush creep up my soft rounded cheeks, but I met his eyes steadily, refusing to let it unsettle me.
"Hi, everyone," I replied, setting down my bag with a soft thud, my dupatta draping elegantly over the chair as I took my seat at the head of the table. The room felt charged, the dim light playing shadows across our faces, highlighting the curve of Aisha's lips or the tension in Tariq's shoulders. We dove right in, the energy buzzing like the fluorescent lights above. "Okay, team," I said, standing up again to command the space, my voice carrying confidently, laced with that feminine lilt that always drew attention. My expressive almond-shaped eyes scanned the group, taking in their reactions as I gestured toward the scattered papers. "We've got the data on Dhaka's traffic congestion nailed down—those endless jams on Mirpur Road, the way buses and rickshaws battle for space like gladiators in an arena. But we need to tie it all into sustainable solutions. Tariq, you're on the stats—make sure the graphs pop, use those fancy Python visualizations you love. Show how congestion costs the economy billions in lost time, how it chokes the air with exhaust fumes that cling to our clothes like unwanted caresses."
Tariq adjusted his glasses, nodding enthusiastically, his fingers already flying over the keys. "Got it, Nusrat. I'll pull in some numpy and matplotlib—make those lines curve as seductively as... well, you know, the Buriganga's bends." He blushed at his own joke, earning a chuckle from Aisha, who slapped his arm playfully.
"Aisha, handle the cultural impact section," I continued, leaning forward, my narrow waist accentuated as I pointed at a map of the city sprawled across the table. "Think about how rapid urbanization affects our daily lives—the endless rickshaw jams that turn a short commute into an hour-long ordeal, street vendors dodging cars like dancers in a chaotic ballet, the way families cram into tiny apartments overlooking polluted canals. Weave in the human element: how it strains relationships, makes lovers late for secret rendezvous, or forces mothers to navigate crowds with babies strapped to their backs."
Aisha grinned, her curly hair bouncing as she jotted notes. "Oh, I love this part! My family's tea stall in Old Dhaka—it's right in the heart of the madness. Crowds swarm like bees to honey, but the chaos? Ki bolbo, it's thrilling and terrifying. Remember that time during Eid, when the streets flooded with shoppers, and we sold out of cha in hours? But the pollution... it leaves your skin sticky, your throat raw. I'll add how urbanization erodes traditions, like the old storytelling sessions under banyan trees now drowned out by honking horns."
I felt alive in these moments, in control, my heart racing with the thrill of leadership. My full pouty lips parted in a smile as I turned to Rasheed, whose eyes traced the curve of my wide hips as I shifted my weight, the shalwar swishing sensually against my thighs. "Rasheed, you'll cross-check the references—make sure our sources are solid, from government reports to international studies on cities like Mumbai or Jakarta. We can't afford any weak links."
He nodded, his polite smile flashing white teeth, but there was something possessive in his stare, a hunger that made my slender throat bob nervously as I swallowed. "Absolutely, Nusrat. I'll dig deep—uncover every hidden detail, just like peeling back layers." His voice dropped an octave, the words laced with double entendre, making my soft rounded cheeks flush warmer. I brushed it off, focusing on the project; peace in group dynamics was paramount, confrontation a luxury I couldn't afford yet.
Hours blurred by in a intoxicating mix of debates and laughter, the room growing warmer as our discussions heated up. We argued over data points—Tariq insisting on including AI-driven traffic models, while Aisha countered with anecdotes from her neighborhood, where technology felt like a distant dream amid power outages. "Come on, Tariq," she teased, her infectious laugh filling the space, "not everyone has a fancy laptop like you. In Old Dhaka, we rely on gut instinct—dodging CNG autos like it's a game of kabaddi."
Tariq pushed his glasses up, grinning sheepishly. "Fair point, but imagine smart signals syncing with the flow, reducing those jams. Nusrat, back me up here—your vision for sustainable Dhaka includes tech, right?"
I leaned back, crossing my long legs, feeling the heels dig into the carpet, my shapely thighs rubbing together subtly under the table. "Absolutely, but balance it with culture. We can't ignore how urbanization sexualizes the city itself—crowds pressing close in buses, bodies brushing in the heat, that electric tension in the air." My words hung there, perhaps too revealing, but Rasheed's eyes darkened, lingering on my full lips as I spoke, on the way my small breasts rose and fell with each breath.
Rasheed contributed sporadically, his data points sharp and insightful, but his stares grew bolder—the way my silky hair caught the light, or how my collarbones peeked invitingly from the kameez. He shared a bit about himself, voice smooth: "Grew up in Dhanmondi, you know? Fancy area, but the traffic still bites. My dad's in construction—building those high-rises that block the sun. Makes you appreciate the curves of the city, how it bends and yields." Again, that undertone, making me shift uncomfortably, my tight balls tingling faintly with unease.
Aisha lightened the mood with more stories, twirling a curl around her finger. "Ei je, Nusrat, tumi ki korcho? You're always so put-together, like a model from those glossy magazines. That dupatta—it's like it came straight from a fashion show in Gulshan. How do you manage in this heat? I'd be a sweaty mess."
I laughed, feeling my cheeks flush, the sound light and melodic. "Just trying to blend tradition with a bit of edge, Aisha. The silk feels divine against my skin, cooling in the breeze. And the heels? They make me feel powerful, like I can conquer Dhaka's potholes." Tariq chimed in with jokes about campus food—the greasy parathas that left you regretting every bite—easing any lingering tension, though Rasheed's gaze never wavered, tracing my slender throat as I swallowed a sip of water from my bottle.
As the sky outside darkened, stars peeking through the smog, we finally wrapped up. The campus grounds were shrouded in night, the humidity thicker now, wrapping around us like a damp blanket, carrying the distant calls of street hawkers peddling late-night snacks—kebabs sizzling on grills, the sizzle echoing like whispered promises. Fireflies flickered in the bushes, and the occasional motorcycle roared by, headlights cutting through the gloom. I packed my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, my dupatta draping elegantly once more, its silk brushing my arm sensually. "Great work, everyone. Let's reconvene tomorrow—same time, same place."
Aisha and Tariq left first, waving goodbyes with promises of coffee next time. "Take care, Nusrat—don't let the ghosts of the library get you!" Aisha joked, her laugh trailing down the hall. Tariq nodded awkwardly, "Yeah, see you. Killer ideas today."
Rasheed lingered, his muscular frame filling the doorway as he gathered his notes slowly. "Nusrat, mind if I walk you back? We should discuss the timeline—it's getting late, and these corridors can be empty, shadowy... intimate." His voice was casual, but something in his warm brown eyes—a flicker of raw desire—made me hesitate, my heart quickening just a touch, pulsing in my chest like a warning drum.
Still, the deserted halls at night could be eerie, echoes amplifying every sound, and safety trumped suspicion. "Sure," I said, forcing a smile, my pouty lips curving despite the unease, as we stepped out together.
We ventured into the narrow hallway near the library, our footsteps echoing off the tiled walls like intimate confessions. The air was thick, almost oppressive, heavy with the faint scent of impending rain—petrichor mixing with the library's musty residue. Rasheed walked close, too close, his muscular arm brushing mine deliberately, sending a shiver up my spine that wasn't entirely from fear. His presence was magnetic, his Dhaka swagger amplified in the confined space, the heat from his body radiating toward me.
"You're incredible, Nusrat," he said suddenly, his voice dropping low, husky, like a caress in the dark. "The way you command a room... it's intoxicating, the confidence in your eyes, the sway in your step." His hand brushed my arm again, lingering this time, fingers grazing the silk of my dupatta, tracing up toward my shoulder.
I stepped back, my high heels clicking sharply against the floor, heart racing now. "Rasheed, please. Let's keep this professional." But he advanced, backing me toward an empty study room door, his sharp jawline tensed, eyes burning with unmasked hunger, the polite smile twisted into something predatory. The hallway seemed to narrow, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of aroused insects, and I felt the first real pang of dread mingle with the humid air clinging to my curves.
Panic flickered in my chest like a wildfire igniting dry tinder as he shoved me inside the cramped study room, the door clicking shut behind us with a finality that sent chills racing down my spine. The space was tiny, suffocating almost, cluttered with mismatched chairs stacked haphazardly in corners and a single rickety table dominating the center, all bathed in the erratic flicker of overhead fluorescent lights that buzzed like angry insects. Shadows danced across the walls, making everything feel even more confined, more inescapable. "What the hell are you doing?" I demanded, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound defiant, but he was on me in an instant, his muscular frame slamming me back against the cold, unyielding wall. His body pressed hard against mine, every inch of his solid chest and thighs molding to my softer curves, trapping me there with no room to breathe, no space to escape. His breath was hot and ragged on my neck, carrying the faint, acrid scent of sweat and desire, making my skin prickle with unwanted heat.
"You've been teasing me all night," he growled low in my ear, his voice a rough rumble that vibrated through me, his hands already roaming possessively over my curves, sliding up from my wide hips to trace the dip of my narrow waist, then higher still to cup my small breasts through the thin fabric of my kameez. I could feel the heat of his palms searing through the material, his fingers digging in with a greed that made my perky tits ache under the pressure.
I fought back instinctively, my nails raking across his arms in desperate scratches, drawing thin lines of red on his skin, but he was so much stronger, his muscular build overwhelming me like a tidal wave crashing down. "Stop! Please, Rasheed, no!" I begged, my heart racing wildly in my chest, pounding against my ribs as if trying to break free, but he only laughed—a low, cruel sound that echoed mockingly in the confined space, bouncing off the walls and amplifying my fear. His mouth crashed onto mine in a forceful kiss that was all dominance and no tenderness, his tongue invading roughly, pushing past my full pouty lips to plunder my mouth, tasting of stale coffee and raw entitlement. I tried to push him away, my hands pressing futilely against his broad chest, but he pinned my wrists above my head with one iron grip, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. His free hand groped my small breasts through my kameez again, squeezing roughly, his thumbs circling my sensitive nipples until they hardened into taut peaks, straining against the fabric. I gasped in pain, the sound muffled against his lips, my perky tits heaving with each frantic breath I managed to draw, the friction of his touch sending unwilling jolts of sensation straight to my core.
He didn't let up, his fingers twisting the fabric tighter, pulling at it until I felt the seams strain. With a savage yank, he tore at my dupatta, the vibrant silk whispering through the air as he tossed it aside like worthless trash, letting it pool forgotten on the floor. Then, his hands were on my kameez, ripping it open with a series of sharp pops as buttons flew everywhere, exposing my supple skin to the cool air of the room. My small breasts spilled free, my pert nipples already erect from his rough handling, and he wasted no time molesting them further, his fingers twisting and pulling at the sensitive buds, rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers until they throbbed with a mix of agony and unwelcome arousal. "Behave, slut," he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt and lust, as he yanked down my shalwar in one swift motion, the fabric sliding over my wide hips and shapely thighs to bunch at my ankles, revealing the delicate lace of my panties that barely concealed my secret. I kicked and twisted desperately, my long legs flailing in a futile attempt to break free, my high heels scraping against the floor, but he slapped my shapely thigh hard, the sting blooming hot and red across my skin like a brand, making me yelp in shock. Tears welled in my almond-shaped eyes, thick lashes clumping together as they spilled over, tracing wet paths down my soft rounded cheeks. He forced me down to my knees then, the cold, gritty floor biting into my skin, sending sharp pinpricks up my legs.
Unzipping his pants with deliberate slowness, he let his cock spring out—thick and veiny, about 7 inches of rigid flesh curved slightly upward, already hard and throbbing with veins pulsing under the skin, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum. The musky scent of him filled my nostrils, overpowering in the close quarters. "Suck it," he demanded, grabbing a fistful of my long, dark hair and shoving my face toward it, the silky waves tangling in his fingers. I resisted, my full pouty lips pressed tight in defiance, but he slapped my cheek sharply, the pain exploding across my face in a humiliating burst that left my skin tingling and hot. More tears streamed down my soft rounded cheeks as I relented, opening my mouth reluctantly, and he thrust in without mercy, gagging me with his length as the thick shaft filled my throat. He fucked my face roughly, his hips slamming forward in a relentless rhythm, my lips stretching taut around his girth, the veiny texture dragging against my tongue with every brutal push. Saliva dripped down my chin in thick rivulets, mixing with my tears, as his balls slapped against my chin with wet, obscene smacks. The scent of his musk was overwhelming now, invading every breath I struggled to take around him, his curved tip hitting the back of my throat repeatedly, making me choke and sputter. He held my head still with both hands now, fingers digging into my scalp, choking me until black spots danced in my vision, my expressive eyes watering profusely, thick lashes heavy with moisture. Finally, he pulled out slowly, strings of spit connecting my swollen lips to his throbbing cock, glistening in the flickering light, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I coughed, my full pouty lips slick and bruised.
Not giving me a moment to recover, he hauled me up by my hair, the pull stinging my scalp, and pushed me onto the table, bending me over its edge so my plump ass was thrust up in the air, my wide hips pressing against the hard wood. My small breasts dangled beneath me, nipples brushing the cool surface and sending shivers through me. He spanked me repeatedly then, his large hand coming down with hard smacks that echoed through the room, leaving red welts blooming across my jiggling flesh, each impact making my rounded cheeks quiver and burn. "Such a perfect ass," he muttered, his voice thick with lust, as he spread my rounded cheeks wide with rough hands, exposing my most intimate parts to his gaze. He yanked my lace panties aside, the fabric tearing slightly under the force, and that's when he discovered it—my 3½-inch cock, semi-hard from the adrenaline surging through my veins, twitching slightly, and my tight, smooth balls drawn up close. His eyes widened in surprise, a brief pause in his relentless assault, his hand hesitating as he reached out and touched it lightly, almost curiously, his fingers brushing over the sensitive skin, sending an involuntary shiver through me. "Wait, what's this? Oh... that's unexpected," he said, his voice laced with a mix of shock and twisted lust, his touch lingering for a moment, stroking gently before his narrowed eyes turned darker, hungrier, and he continued without missing a beat.
I felt a flush of vulnerability wash over me, my internal thoughts racing in a whirlwind—would he stop now, repulsed? But no, if anything, the discovery seemed to fuel him further. He kept me bent over, his fingers now probing lower, forcing their way into my ass—rough and unlubed, starting with two thick digits that pushed past my puckered entrance with burning insistence, stretching me painfully as I cried out, the sound raw and desperate. He added a third finger soon after, scissoring them inside me cruelly, twisting and curling to open me up, the burn intense and unrelenting, my hole clenching around the intrusion in futile protest. I writhed against the table, my plump ass cheeks trembling, but he covered my mouth with his free hand, muffling my sobs into choked whimpers, his palm tasting of salt and skin. The preparation was merciless, his fingers plunging deeper with each thrust, grazing sensitive spots inside me that made my tiny cock twitch harder against the table's edge, leaking pre-cum in sticky trails. "Fuck, you're so tight back here," he groaned, his voice husky, as he finally withdrew his fingers, leaving me aching and empty for a split second before aligning his thick cock with my stretched ring.
He slammed in in one brutal thrust, the fullness overwhelming as my ass stretched around his veiny shaft, the curved tip burying deep inside me with a searing pain that made stars explode behind my eyelids. I screamed into his hand, the sound vibrating against his palm, but he didn't relent, his weight crushing down on me as he began to pound relentlessly, each deep thrust driving his cock further, the slap of his hips against my jiggling ass filling the room with rhythmic, wet echoes. He groped my small breasts from behind somehow, reaching around to squeeze and pinch my sensitive nipples, rolling them until they ached deliciously, while his other hand released my mouth to grip my narrow waist, pulling me back onto him harder. His mouth found my neck, kissing forcefully, teeth biting down on my collarbones hard enough to leave marks, the pain mingling with the friction building inside me. Unwanted sparks of pleasure shot through my core as his curved tip hit that sweet spot repeatedly, making my body betray me further, my tiny cock throbbing against my stomach, leaking more pre-cum onto my narrow waist in warm droplets. "Shit, take it deeper, you slut," he growled, his hips slamming forward with increased ferocity, the veiny length dragging along my inner walls with every withdrawal and plunge, stretching me wider, the burn slowly fading into a throbbing fullness that had me moaning involuntarily, the pain twisting into waves of reluctant ecstasy.
The rhythm built endlessly, his thrusts varying from slow, grinding rolls that let me feel every inch of him pulsing inside me, to frantic, punishing slams that made my plump ass cheeks ripple with each impact, his balls swinging forward to smack against mine in sticky collisions. Sweat slicked our skin, making every touch slippery, his muscular chest pressing against my back as he leaned over me, his breath hot and erratic on my silky hair. My expressive eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught, tears still trickling down my cheeks, but my body arched instinctively, pushing back despite myself, the humiliation burning as hot as the pleasure. He kept going for what felt like an eternity, his hands roaming everywhere—squeezing my supple thighs, tracing my wide hips, even reaching down to stroke my leaking cock in rough tugs that made me gasp, pre-cum coating his fingers. "Yeah, feel that? You're loving this, aren't you?" he taunted, his voice a gravelly whisper, as he ground deeper, circling his hips to hit new angles, the curved cock massaging my prostate until I was trembling, my small tits heaving with labored breaths, nipples scraping the table.
Eventually, without warning, the emptiness ached as he pulled out completely, his cock slick and shining, leaving my hole gaping and pulsing. He flipped me over effortlessly, my back hitting the table with a thud, my long, toned legs splaying wide as he hooked them over his broad shoulders, folding me in half to expose me fully, my plump ass lifted off the surface. The position allowed him to loom over me, his sharp jawline tense with lust, as he realigned and thrust back in, the penetration even deeper now, his thick shaft filling me to the hilt. He resumed pounding immediately, his weight crushing me into the table, groping my small breasts with both hands now, kneading the perky flesh, twisting my pert nipples until they were red and swollen. His mouth descended on my neck again, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of bruises along my collarbones, the forceful kisses making my smooth throat bob with swallows. Each unrelenting thrust sent his curved tip slamming into my prostate, waves of twisted pleasure crashing over me despite the tears, my tiny cock bouncing against my stomach with every impact, leaking profusely onto my narrow waist. "Fuck, your ass is gripping me so tight," he grunted, his hips snapping forward in a brutal cadence, the slap of skin on skin echoing louder, wetter, as sweat and pre-cum mingled.
He varied the pace here too, slowing to long, deliberate strokes that let me feel the veiny texture dragging out and in, stretching my walls deliciously, before accelerating to frantic pounding that made the table creak under us. My shapely thighs quivered around his shoulders, my long legs trembling as he held them in place, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. I sobbed openly now, my silky hair fanned out beneath me, sticking to my sweat-dampened face, my expressive eyes locked on his in a mix of fear and unwilling surrender. The friction built unbearably, his cock throbbing inside me, pulsing with every grind, while his hands molested my body relentlessly—pinching, squeezing, stroking. My sensitive nipples hardened further under his rough pinches, sending electric jolts straight to my core, amplifying the unwanted ecstasy. "Please, slower," I whispered through gasps, but he laughed darkly, thrusting harder instead, his balls slapping against my plump, round cheeks with each deep plunge, the sensation making my own balls ache and tighten.
The assault seemed endless, his stamina unyielding as he explored every angle, tilting his hips to hit different spots, making me arch and moan despite myself. My plump ass clenched around him involuntarily, drawing groans from his lips, the fullness so complete it bordered on overwhelming. Pre-cum from my tiny cock smeared across my skin, slick and warm, as it twitched with every prostate graze. Finally, after what felt like hours of this tormenting rhythm, he shifted again, pulling out with a wet pop that left me whimpering at the loss.
He sat down heavily on one of the chairs, his cock standing proud and glistening, and pulled me with him, guiding me to straddle his lap with my back to him, my shapely thighs spreading wide over his. My plump ass hovered for a moment before he forced me down, impaling me fully on his thick length, the curved shaft sliding back into my stretched hole with a slick ease that made me gasp. My rounded cheeks settled against his lap, jiggling slightly as he began to bounce me up and down, his hands gripping my wide hips to control the motion, thrusting upward to meet each descent. The angle was new and intense, his cock reaching even deeper, grinding against my prostate with every bounce. His hands molested my tiny cock now, stroking it roughly with calloused fingers, the grip tight and unyielding, making it throb and leak more pre-cum that slicked his palm and dripped down my tight balls. "Fuck, your little dick is hard for this," he taunted, the humiliation burning through me like fire, as I felt myself pulse in his hold, the strokes matching the rhythm of his upward thrusts.
My narrow waist arched instinctively, my small tits bouncing with each forceful movement, nipples taut and aching in the cool air, begging for touch he occasionally granted with a rough pinch. Sweat poured down my back, making our skin slide together slickly, the sounds of wet flesh meeting flesh filling the room—slap, squelch, gasp. He kept the pace varying, sometimes slow lifts and drops that let me feel every veiny inch stretching me, other times rapid bounces that made my plump ass ripple and my long legs tremble on either side of him. His free hand roamed my body, squeezing my supple thighs, tracing my curves, even spanking my jiggling cheeks lightly to add stinging bursts to the pleasure-pain mix. I moaned louder now, the twisted ecstasy building despite the degradation, my silky hair cascading down my back, brushing his chest as I moved. "Yeah, ride it like the whore you are," he growled, his thrusts growing more erratic, his cock pulsing inside me, the curved tip massaging relentlessly.
This went on for an agonizingly long time, his hands never stopping their assault—stroking, groping, pinching—until my body was a quivering mess, every nerve alight. Then, with a sudden surge, he stood up, lifting me with him effortlessly, his cock still buried deep as he pressed me against the wall once more. He hooked one of my long legs high around his waist, the position opening me further, allowing his cock to drive into my ass at a new, piercing angle that hit deep and made me moan louder despite myself. "Shit, you're clenching so good around me," he grunted, resuming his pounding, his hips slamming forward with renewed vigor, the wall scraping my back with each thrust. His mouth found mine again, kissing roughly, biting my full lip until a coppery tang of blood mixed with our saliva, his tongue invading as forcefully as his cock. His free hand roamed hungrily, groping my jiggling ass, squeezing the soft flesh, then sliding up to pinch my tight balls lightly before stroking my leaking cock in rhythm with his thrusts, the dual sensations overwhelming.
He ground slowly at first in this stance, building tension with circular motions that let his veiny shaft massage every inch of my inner walls, the curved tip teasing my prostate until I was whimpering continuously. Then, he shifted to frantic pounding, his muscular body pinning me utterly, my lifted leg trembling as he held it high, my other foot barely touching the ground in my high heels. The slap of his balls against my ass was constant now, wet and insistent, mingling with my muffled cries and his grunts. Sweat dripped down our bodies, making everything slippery, heightening the sensory overload—his hands everywhere, groping my small breasts, twisting nipples, stroking my throbbing cock until pre-cum coated us both. The room was filled with the obscene symphony of our joining—wet slaps, heavy breathing, skin on skin.
Drawn-out phases of degradation blurred into one endless violation, each shift seamless in its brutality, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Finally, he buried himself deep one last time, his thick cock pulsing wildly as he came inside me, hot spurts filling my ass in powerful jets, overflowing and leaking down my thighs in warm rivulets. "Take every drop, you filthy slut," he groaned, holding me impaled there until he softened, his body shuddering against mine.
He pulled out abruptly, zipping up with a satisfied smirk, and leaned close, his breath still hot and labored on my flushed face. "Everyone will know by morning. Your little secret? Over." He left me there, violated and spent, semen dripping steadily from my stretched hole, the terror of exposure clawing at my soul more fiercely than the physical ache throbbing through my body, leaving me trembling uncontrollably against the wall, then slumping to the table in exhaustion.
I lay there for what felt like hours, my mind reeling in a haze of shock and humiliation, every muscle aching, my supple skin marked with bruises and bites. But eventually, the need to escape overrode the paralysis; I gathered my torn clothes with shaking hands, wrapping my dupatta around me like a fragile shield, the silk clinging to my sweat-dampened curves. The walk back to my dorm was a blur of shadowed paths and heavy night air, the campus eerily empty under the moon, my high heels clicking unevenly as my long legs wobbled. I locked the door behind me with fumbling fingers, collapsing onto the bed in a disheveled heap, tears soaking the pillow as sobs wracked my frame. My body throbbed in protest—bruises blooming like dark flowers on my shapely thighs, welts rising angrily on my plump ass, my hole sore and stretched beyond comfort, a sticky mess of his release and my own arousal coating the insides of my legs. But the fear was worse, a vise squeezing my heart until it hurt to breathe. Exposure meant everything crumbling: friends turning away in disgust, studies derailed by scandal, the fragile life I'd fought tooth and nail to build in Dhaka shattered into irreparable pieces.
An hour later, as I lay curled on my bed in the dim glow of my dorm room lamp, the remnants of tears drying on my soft, rounded cheeks, a soft knock echoed through the silence like a thunderclap. My blood ran cold, a chill snaking down my spine and pooling in my narrow waist, making my hourglass figure tense beneath the tangled sheets. The assault's aftermath still throbbed through me—my plump ass sore from the welts, my tight hole aching with every shift, a sticky reminder of his violation leaking between my shapely thighs. My small, perky breasts heaved with shallow breaths, nipples still sensitive and slightly swollen from his rough groping, brushing against the fabric of my torn kameez like a cruel caress. I froze, my expressive almond-shaped eyes widening in terror, thick lashes fluttering as I strained to listen. Who could it be at this hour? The dorm was quiet, the distant hum of Dhaka's night traffic filtering through the window like a lullaby turned nightmare.
Heart pounding, I slipped from the bed, my long, toned legs unsteady as I padded to the door on bare feet—my high heels discarded earlier in a heap, no longer the elegant extension of my graceful stride but a symbol of vulnerability. My long, dark hair cascaded in disheveled waves down my back, sticking to the sweat on my smooth, slender throat. I pressed my eye to the peephole, my full pouty lips parting in a silent gasp. There he was: Rasheed. But something was horribly off. His skin looked pale, unnaturally waxy under the harsh hallway light, like a mannequin dipped in candle drippings. His wide smile stretched too far, unnatural, revealing teeth that gleamed too perfectly, but his eyes—those warm brown eyes that had burned with possessive hunger earlier—were now dead, black voids sucking in the light, devoid of any spark.
A wave of nausea hit me, my tiny cock twitching involuntarily against my thigh, tucked away in my lace panties, a private thrill now twisted into fear. My balls tightened, smooth and sensitive, as adrenaline surged. Was this some sick game? Had he come back for more, to claim my body again, to stretch my ass with that thick, veiny cock of his? The thought sent a forbidden shiver through me, mixing dread with the lingering echoes of unwanted arousal from the assault. I didn't open the door. "Go away!" I shouted, my voice trembling, cracking like fragile glass. My full lips quivered, glossed pink now smeared from tears and earlier force, as I backed away, my wide hips swaying instinctively even in panic.
"Nusrat," came the reply, but his voice was all wrong—flat, echoing as if emerging from a deep tunnel, devoid of the growl that had accompanied his thrusts. "I'm sorry. It was the alcohol. I didn't mean to hurt you." The words were textbook remorse, rehearsed to perfection, like lines from a bad drama serial on Bangla TV. But they rang hollow, lacking the raw emotion, the entitlement that had laced his earlier snarls. No slur of regret, no quiver of shame—just empty syllables floating through the wood. I pressed my hand to my heart-shaped face, feeling the flush on my delicate nose and cheeks, my small pierced ears burning under the simple studs. What the fuck was this? My mind raced, replaying the night's horrors: his hands on my perky tits, squeezing until they heaved; his cock slamming into my throat, gagging me with its girth; the brutal pounding in my ass, positions shifting like a demented dance. And now this... what even was this?
He stood there silently for minutes, that waxy face unmoving, the smile fixed like a mask. I could hear his breathing—or was it? Steady, mechanical, not the ragged pants of a man who'd just violated me. Finally, footsteps receded, fading down the hall. I slid to the floor, my plump ass hitting the cool tiles with a soft jiggle, sending a fresh ache through my stretched hole. Tears welled again, tracing paths down my collarbones, dripping onto my exposed small breasts where the kameez gaped open. My nipples hardened in the chill, pert and begging for touch, even as my body recoiled. I hugged my knees to my chest, my shapely thighs rubbing together, long legs folding elegantly despite the turmoil. Sleep evaded me that night, my thoughts a whirlwind of fear and fragmented memories—his thick shaft stretching me wide, the slap of skin, the unwanted fullness grinding against my prostate. But this new terror? It gnawed deeper, threatening not just my body but the feminine essence I'd cultivated so carefully in this city of second chances.
The next morning dawned humid and relentless, Dhaka awakening with its usual cacophony. I dragged myself from bed, my body a map of bruises: red marks on my jiggling ass, faint fingerprints on my narrow waist, a bite on my smooth throat that I covered with my dupatta. Standing before the mirror, I assessed the damage, my heart-shaped face pale, expressive eyes shadowed with exhaustion. My long, dark hair needed taming, but I brushed it into silky waves, letting it cascade down my back as a shield. I chose a vibrant green shalwar-kameez today, the fabric clinging to my hourglass figure—small tits perking under the fitted top, wide hips flaring seductively, plump ass swaying with each step in my high heels. My full pouty lips got a fresh coat of pink gloss, a defiant mask of normalcy. Beneath, my 3½-inch cock and tight balls were tucked securely, a secret throb of confident femininity amid the chaos. But as I stepped into the bustling campus, the air thick with the scent of street chai and exhaust from passing auto rickshaws, dread coiled in my gut.
University life pulsed around me: students in colorful kurtas and jeans weaving through the gates, vendors hawking samosas and fresh mangoes from carts under banyan trees. The call to prayer would echo later from distant mosques, a rhythmic reminder of cultural roots in this modern sprawl. I headed to my first class, sociology, where Aisha and Tariq from the group project waited. Aisha, that bubbly Bengali girl in her early 20s with curly black hair framing her round face and infectious laugh, spotted me first. "Nusrat! Ei, tumi kemon acho? You look tired, girl. Late night studying?" she teased, her warm brown eyes sparkling as she hugged me, her soft curves pressing briefly against mine. I forced a smile, feeling my perky nipples brush against her through our clothes, a fleeting spark that grounded me.
"Yeah, something like that," I murmured, my voice steady despite the quiver in my full lips. Tariq, the lanky 19-year-old with messy hair and glasses perpetually sliding down his nose, chimed in, adjusting his backpack. "Heard about Rasheed? Guy's gone AWOL. No one's seen him since our meeting last night. Weird, right? He was supposed to email me those data sheets." His Bengali accent was thick, casual, but his words hit like ice. I feigned ignorance, my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my slender throat. "Really? That's odd. Maybe he's sick." Inside, panic surged—had the real Rasheed vanished? What was that thing at my door?
As class dragged on, the professor droning about urban social dynamics in Dhaka—the teeming markets of Gulshan, the crowded slums of Korail, the blend of tradition and modernity that mirrored my own life—I spotted it. Through the lecture hall window, lurking in the shadows of the corridor: that pale, waxy face. The thing wearing Rasheed's muscular build, short black hair cropped close, sharp jawline now unnaturally still. Its head tilted at an odd angle, like a bird studying prey, those black void eyes fixed on me. My shapely thighs clenched under the desk, my tiny cock stirring with fear-laced adrenaline, balls tightening as sweat beaded on my collarbones.
Lunch in the canteen was worse. The space buzzed with chatter, the aroma of biryani and dal wafting from steaming trays, students laughing over plates piled high. I sat with Aisha and a few others—Sadia, a quiet mid-20s Bengali girl with straight black hair to her waist and piercing green eyes, always in modest hijabs that accentuated her lithe figure; and Imran, a boisterous guy around 21, tall and lean with a goatee, his laughter booming. "Nusrat, you seem off today," Sadia noted softly, her voice like a gentle breeze, as she passed me a cup of tea. "Everything okay? You've got that glow, but your eyes... they're tired." I sipped, feeling the warmth spread, but my narrow waist twisted with unease. "Just stressed about the project," I lied, my expressive eyes darting to the corner.
There it was, sitting alone at a table, that empty smile plastered on. It didn't eat, just stared, head cocking unnaturally. "Nusrat," it called in that flat, echoing voice as I passed later, making me jump. "I won't tell if you forgive me." The words slithered out, laced with veiled threat, no one else seeming to notice. I hurried away, my high heels clicking on the tiled floor, dupatta fluttering behind like a panic flag.
Dusk fell, the campus grounds bathed in golden light as the adhan echoed from minarets across the city—Allahu Akbar resonating through the humid air, a call to prayer that usually soothed but now amplified my isolation. Students gathered in groups, some heading to Maghrib prayers, others to evening chai stalls where rickshaws honked and street lamps flickered on. I walked alone, my long legs carrying me with poise, but inside, dread built like a monsoon storm. There it was again, on a bench under a palm tree, watching with that puppet-smooth posture. "Let's talk," it droned, rising with jerky steps that belied its muscular frame. I bolted, heart racing, my small breasts bouncing with each stride, nipples chafing sensually against my kameez in the rush.
Whispers spread through the campus like wildfire. In the common room that evening, as I pretended to study, friends gossiped. "Rasheed's missing," Imran said, leaning back, his lean arms crossed. "Police might get involved. Last seen with our group, right? Nusrat, you were the last one with him, weren't you?" His eyes narrowed playfully, but it stung. Aisha nodded, her curly hair bouncing. "Yeah, creepy. Hope he's okay. But seriously, Nusrat, if you know something..." I shook my head, feigning concern, my full pouty lips pressed thin. "Nothing. We just discussed the project." But my heart pounded, my tiny cock aching with tension, tucked away as a vulnerable secret this thing now hunted.
This impostor—this mimic—wore his face perfectly, but moved wrong, too fluid yet abrupt, like strings pulled by an invisible hand. I realized, in sleepless nights, that it must have absorbed his memories during... whatever happened after the assault. Fixated on me, on the discovery of my cock and balls during that brutal undressing, the surprise in his eyes turning to lust. It craved that complexity, the blend of my feminine allure—my jiggling ass, heaving tits, swaying hips—with my hidden anatomy. Dread mounted; I couldn't sleep, my expressive eyes ringed with dark circles, thick lashes heavy. Meals were skipped, my narrow waist slimming further, making my wide hips stand out more provocatively in my outfits. At night, I'd lie awake, feeling my small breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths, fingers tracing my sensitive nipples absentmindedly, seeking comfort in my own touch. My tiny cock would twitch, balls smooth and tight, a reminder of the vulnerability it sought to devour—not just fuck, but consume.
Days blurred into a nightmare haze. Dhaka's bustling streets became a gauntlet: morning commutes on crowded buses, where bodies pressed close, my perky tits brushing strangers, heightening my awareness of my curves. I'd spot it amid the rickshaws clanging through traffic, vendors shouting "Chai! Garam chai!" under the relentless sun. That waxy skin gleamed unnaturally, black voids fixed on me. "Nusrat, let's talk," it'd intone flatly, approaching with those jerky, puppet-like steps that sent chills through my supple thighs. I'd run, high heels clicking frantically on uneven pavements, dupatta fluttering like a flag of sheer panic, my plump ass jiggling with each desperate stride.
One afternoon, escaping to a quiet cafรฉ in Dhanmondi, surrounded by the chatter of young professionals and the aroma of coffee mixed with spices, I confided partially in Aisha over tea. "Something's wrong," I whispered, my voice husky, full lips trembling. "This... guy following me. Looks like Rasheed, but... not." She leaned in, her curly hair framing concerned eyes. "Ki bolcho? Stalker? We should report it. But Rasheed's missing—maybe it's a twin or something? Be careful, Nusrat. You're too beautiful to be alone like this." Her compliment warmed me, a fleeting sexual charge as our hands touched, but fear overshadowed it.
Nights were torment. In my dorm, windows barred against the city's humidity, I'd pace, my long legs striding gracefully, hips swaying. Memories flashed: his thick cock stretching my ass in missionary, doggy, reverse cowgirl—positions that now haunted my dreams, blending pain with twisted ecstasy. The mimic wanted more, to unravel my essence. I'd touch myself sometimes, fingers slipping under my shalwar, stroking my 3½-inch cock slowly, balls cupped gently, affirming my femininity amid the horror. But always, the dread lingered, a sexualized shadow over my body, making every curve feel exposed, every throb a vulnerability.
Weeks stretched, the mimic's presence escalating. In lectures, it'd appear outside windows; at markets, amid haggling over silks and spices, its flat voice cutting through. Friends noticed my withdrawal—Sadia offering hugs that pressed her lithe body to mine, Imran joking to lighten moods. But I isolated, my world shrinking to survival, my sexualized self both armor and target. The thing hunted not just my secret, but the electric femininity that made me Nusrat—the girl with the hourglass figure, bold fashion, and hidden thrill. And in Dhaka's endless pulse, I ran, heels clicking, body aching with fear and unspoken desire.
One evening, as I hurried back from a late class, the campus paths shadowed by swaying palm trees that whispered secrets in the humid breeze, it followed me relentlessly. I could hear its footsteps—too even, too precise, like the ticking of a metronome echoing through the night, each step a calculated mimicry of human gait that sent icy prickles racing up my long, toned legs. My heart pounded in my chest, making my small, perky breasts heave beneath the snug fabric of my shalwar-kameez, the material clinging to my curves with a damp sheen from the evening's lingering sweat. I quickened my pace, my high heels clicking sharply against the uneven pavement, each strike amplifying the sway of my wide hips and the subtle jiggle of my plump ass, a rhythmic tease that now felt like a vulnerability exposed to the shadows. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine blooming in nearby gardens, mixed with the distant rumble of Dhaka's traffic, but all I could focus on was the unnatural presence closing in, its aura chilling the warmth from my supple skin.
I reached my dorm door, fumbling with the key in trembling fingers, my full pouty lips parted in shallow gasps that made my slender throat bob nervously. But before I could twist the lock, it slipped inside with an eerie fluidity, the door creaking open just enough for its form to glide through like smoke. There it stood, motionless in the dim light of my room, its head cocked sideways at an angle that defied natural anatomy, casting elongated shadows across the walls lined with posters of Bengali poetry and vibrant textiles. The air grew cold immediately, heavy with an unnatural chill that seeped into my bones, making my nipples harden into taut peaks against the thin kameez, straining visibly as if begging for touch in the frosty atmosphere. My almond-shaped eyes widened in terror, thick lashes framing the horror as I backed away, my long, dark hair cascading in silky waves down my back, brushing against my narrow waist like a lover's hesitant caress.
"Let me in," it said, its voice a monotone drone that reverberated through the room like an echo from a void, devoid of any human inflection or warmth. "I like this skin. I want to know what else you're hiding." Its eyes gleamed with an unnatural hunger—not the raw, possessive lust of a man craving my body, but something deeper, more insidious: a desire to consume my very identity, to unravel the woman I'd painstakingly become, layer by sensual layer. The thought made my 3½-inch cock twitch involuntarily in my lace panties, tucked securely yet throbbing with a mix of fear and forbidden arousal, my tight, smooth balls drawing up close as adrenaline surged through my hourglass figure.
Terror paralyzed me for a moment, my expressive eyes locked on its waxy features, but it advanced with mechanical precision, grabbing my arm with icy fingers that sent shivers racing through my supple skin, the cold grip contrasting sharply with the heat building in my core despite the dread. It pushed me onto the bed with forceful ease, the mattress dipping under our combined weight as my long legs splayed out, heels digging into the sheets. Its touch was mechanical yet unyielding, fingers digging into my flesh like clamps, bruising the soft curves of my arm. "Show me," it intoned flatly, its hands—mimicking Rasheed's strong, muscular ones—tearing at my shalwar-kameez with effortless rips that echoed through the room like fabric sighing in surrender. The vibrant dupatta was discarded first, fluttering to the floor like a fallen petal, exposing the graceful sweep of my collarbones and the subtle swell of my small breasts. Then the kameez was wrenched open, buttons popping free and scattering across the bed, revealing my perky breasts fully to the chilled air, my nipples hardening into sensitive buds that ached with the sudden exposure, pink and pert, begging for mercy or more in their taut erection.
It molested me without pause, its hands groping my small tits with a pressure harder than any flesh should exert, fingers digging into the soft, yielding mounds, kneading them roughly as if testing their resilience. The pain was sharp and unrelenting, shooting through my chest like electric currents, making my back arch involuntarily and my narrow waist twist in protest, yet the friction sent unwelcome sparks of sensation straight to my core, my tiny cock stirring harder against the lace confines. It pinched my nipples between thumb and forefinger, twisting them slowly at first, then with increasing intensity, rolling the sensitive peaks until they throbbed with a mix of agony and traitorous pleasure, swelling under the assault and darkening with blood rush. I gasped, my full pouty lips parting wider, gloss smeared from the earlier day's wear, as waves of sensation rippled down to my wide hips, making them shift restlessly on the bed.
Without warning, it forced its mouth onto mine in a kiss that was all invasion and no passion, its lips cold and unyielding like polished marble, pressing against my soft, warm ones with bruising force. Its tongue probed like a metal rod, thrusting into my mouth without warmth or rhythm, exploring every crevice with mechanical thoroughness, tasting of nothing but emptiness as it tangled with mine. I struggled beneath it, my hands pushing futilely against its broad chest, feeling the unnatural rigidity beneath the skin, but it held me firm, deepening the kiss until my full lips were bruised and swollen, slick with saliva that dripped down my chin in thin trails. The coldness seeped into me, contrasting with the heat building in my cheeks, flushed and rounded, as my body betrayed me with a faint moan muffled against its unfeeling mouth.
I tried to pull away, my expressive eyes watering with tears that clumped my thick lashes, but it shoved me down to my knees with a single, forceful push, the cold floor biting into my skin through the thin shalwar fabric still clinging to my shapely thighs. Kneeling there, my long legs folded beneath me, I stared up at its form, heart racing as it unzipped its pants with deliberate slowness, revealing its cock—his cock, thick and veiny, a full 7 inches curved upward in rigid perfection—but it felt wrong, too unyielding, like carved stone wrapped in flesh. The head glistened unnaturally, pre-cum beading like dew on a statue, and the musky scent that should have been intoxicating was absent, replaced by a sterile void. It grabbed a fistful of my long, silky hair, tangling the waves in its fingers with a grip that stung my scalp, and thrust forward without mercy, forcing the thick shaft past my full pouty lips and into my mouth.
The intrusion was immediate and overwhelming, the rigid length filling my mouth completely, stretching my lips taut around its girth as the veiny texture dragged against my tongue with each mechanical push. It pounded my throat with unerring precision, hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm that hit the back of my throat repeatedly, making me gag and choke, saliva bubbling up and dripping in thick rivulets down my chin, coating my slender throat and dripping onto my exposed small breasts. Its balls slapped against my chin coldly, the smooth skin of them brushing my soft rounded cheeks with each thrust, the sensation mechanical and devoid of warmth, yet the friction built an unwilling heat in my core, my tiny cock hardening further in its lace prison, pre-cum leaking to dampen the fabric. It held my head steady, fingers digging deeper into my scalp, forcing me to take every inch as the curved tip battered my throat, black spots dancing in my vision from the lack of air, my expressive eyes streaming tears that traced hot paths down my face. The face-fucking dragged on, each withdrawal slow and teasing, letting me gasp for breath before plunging back in, the unyielding hardness scraping my inner cheeks, my full lips swelling around it as saliva mixed with pre-cum in a slick mess that dribbled onto my heaving chest, making my perky nipples glisten in the dim light.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of this oral violation, my throat raw and aching, voice hoarse from muffled cries, it pulled out with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting my bruised lips to its glistening shaft. But there was no respite; it hauled me up by my hair, the sting sharpening as it bent me over the desk nearby, my plump ass thrust upward, wide hips pressing against the hard wood edge. The shalwar was yanked down roughly, bunching at my ankles, exposing my jiggling flesh to the cold air, my lace panties pulled aside to reveal my tight hole and the secret beneath. Smacks echoed through the room as its hand came down on my rounded cheeks, each spanking deliberate and hard, reddening the skin in blooming welts that burned like fire, making my ass quiver with every impact. The jiggle of my plump flesh was hypnotic, each slap sending ripples through my wide hips and down my shapely thighs, the pain mingling with a deep throb that made my tight balls ache and my tiny cock leak more pre-cum onto the desk surface.
"Reveal," it demanded in that flat drone, its fingers invading my ass without prelude—starting with two thick digits that pushed past my puckered entrance with burning insistence, stretching the tight ring wide. The burn was excruciating, my walls clenching futilely around the cold intrusion as it twisted inside, probing deeper, knuckle-deep and then further, adding a third finger to scissor and curl, opening me impossibly wide. Pain exploded through me, radiating from my core to my narrow waist, making me cry out, my voice raw as tears spilled anew. It plunged deeper than any human could, fingers wriggling and twisting relentlessly, grazing sensitive spots that sent unwilling jolts of pleasure mixing with the agony, my prostate throbbing under the assault. My plump ass trembled, cheeks clenching around its wrist as it pushed in up to the knuckles, the stretch so intense it felt like I was being torn apart from within, yet my body betrayed me, my 3½-inch cock twitching and leaking profusely, pre-cum pooling on the desk as my long legs shook.
The violation intensified as it withdrew its fingers slowly, letting me feel every inch of the retreat, my hole gaping and pulsing in the aftermath, before it positioned itself behind me, aligning the thick, rigid cock with my stretched entrance. But instead of thrusting in fully, it teased the tip against my ring, circling slowly, the curved head pressing just enough to stretch me further without entering, building an agonizing anticipation that made my wide hips buck involuntarily. When it finally slammed in, the force pinned me harder against the desk, the unyielding shaft burying deep into my ass, filling me completely with its cold rigidity. My long legs wrapped around it unwillingly as it adjusted, pulling me back onto the bed in a fluid motion, laying me flat on my back with my wrists pinned above my head in its iron grip. The thrust came with unyielding force, hips driving forward mechanically, the curved tip grinding against my inner walls with each deep plunge, hitting my prostate relentlessly and sending sparks of twisted ecstasy through my trembling body.
My cock rubbed against its stomach with every movement, the friction hardening it further despite the terror, pre-cum slicking my taut skin and smearing across its unfeeling form. "More data," it droned monotonously, its free hand groping my heaving breasts, fingers kneading the small mounds with mechanical repetition, pinching my sensitive nipples until they throbbed and swelled, red and aching under the assault. The pain shot straight to my core, amplifying the fullness in my ass as it thrust in a steady rhythm—slow at first, letting me feel every veiny inch dragging out and in, stretching my walls deliciously wide, then accelerating to frantic pounding that made the bed creak, my plump ass lifting to meet each slam despite my sobs. Sweat beaded on my supple skin, trickling down my collarbones and between my perky tits, making everything slick as its hands roamed, twisting my nipples harder, rolling them until I gasped, my full pouty lips parted in a mix of cries and unwilling moans.
Without breaking rhythm, it shifted us seamlessly, rolling me onto my side and then pulling me up onto all fours, my knees digging into the mattress as it slammed in from behind, the new angle driving even deeper. The slap of its hips against my rounded cheeks filled the room, rhythmic and wet, each impact making my jiggling flesh ripple and burn from the earlier spankings. Between thrusts, its free hand returned to my ass, fingers invading alongside the cock briefly when it pulled out just enough, the double stretch burning anew as digits curled inside, twisting cruelly before withdrawing to let the shaft re-enter fully. My insides protested with a searing ache, walls clenching around the intrusions, but the friction on my prostate was relentless, making my tiny cock bounce and leak, pre-cum dripping onto the sheets. "Fuck, it hurts," I gasped through tears, my voice breaking, but it continued undeterred, hips pounding with mechanical vigor, slap slap slap echoing as its hand came down again on my reddened cheeks, spanking in time with the thrusts, each smack heightening the throb in my core.
The assault dragged on, its pace varying from slow, grinding rolls that let me feel the curved tip massaging every sensitive spot, to rapid slams that left me breathless, my long, dark hair sticking to my sweat-dampened back. Eventually, it withdrew completely, the emptiness aching for a split second before it lay back on the bed, hauling me atop it with effortless strength. I was forced to straddle its form, facing it, my wide hips grinding down as I sank onto the rigid shaft, impaled fully once more, the fullness overwhelming as my plump ass settled against its lap. It groped my shapely thighs with cold hands, fingers digging into the soft flesh, tracing the curves upward to my narrow waist before reaching for my 3½-inch cock, stroking it roughly with an unvarying mechanical grip that made it throb and leak profusely, pre-cum coating its palm and dripping down my tight balls. "Analyze," it intoned flatly, thrusting upward in perfect rhythm, each upward surge lifting me slightly, making my small tits bounce with hypnotic motion, nipples quivering and aching in the air, still swollen from earlier pinching.
I rode unwillingly, my body moving with the force of its thrusts, hips grinding in circles that amplified the friction inside me, the curved cock hitting deep and hard, waves of unwanted pleasure crashing through the pain. Its hands never stopped, alternating between squeezing my thighs, kneading my perky breasts, and stroking my leaking cock, the sensations building layer upon layer until my expressive eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming as moans escaped my bruised lips. The rhythm built endlessly, slow ascents where I felt every veiny pulse, then frantic bouncing that made my wide hips ache and my ass clench tighter around it.
From there, it twisted me around without withdrawing, spinning me so my back faced it, my plump ass impaled anew as I leaned forward slightly, the angle shifting to hammer my prostate even more relentlessly. It spanked my jiggling cheeks alternately, hand coming down with sharp smacks that echoed, reddening the skin further and making the welts burn hotter, while its other fingers plunged in beside the cock briefly, the dual intrusion tearing a raw moan from my throat as my walls stretched to their limit. Pain and friction blended into a throbbing ecstasy, my body arching despite the horror, my tiny cock twitching untouched now, leaking in steady droplets onto the bed. The grinding continued, hips rolling beneath me in mechanical precision, drawing out each sensation until I trembled, my shapely thighs quivering around its form.
The shifts blurred as it stood abruptly, lifting me with it, the cock still buried deep, pressing me against the wall with my back to the cold surface. One of my long legs was lifted high over its shoulder, opening me further, the angle driving its thrusts upward with piercing depth, my hole clenching around the rigid shaft as it pounded relentlessly. Its cold lips found my neck, kissing with unyielding pressure, teeth grazing my collarbones and leaving faint marks, while its hands molested my body everywhere—twisting my tight balls until they ached, pinching the soft skin of my inner thighs, groping my small breasts and rolling my nipples between fingers. The position allowed for deeper penetration, each slam sending the curved tip grinding against new spots, my body trembling as pre-cum from my cock smeared against my narrow waist, the friction building to unbearable levels.
It dragged us down to the floor next, positioning me on my side, its arm snaking around my narrow waist to pull me close in a side-entry that filled me from behind, rocking in and out with steady force. Its fingers twisted my balls while thrusting, the pain sharp and constant, making me scream as the curved cock hit fresh angles inside, massaging my prostate with unerring accuracy. Sweat slicked our bodies, making the slide smoother, the wet sounds of skin on skin filling the room as it varied the pace—slow withdrawals that teased my stretched ring, then rapid plunges that left me gasping, my full pouty lips parted in continuous whimpers.
From the floor, it maneuvered us to the chair nearby, sitting with me in its lap face-to-face, our legs entwined in a close press that allowed it to rock into me deeply, thrusting upward as our bodies molded together. Its hands groped my perky breasts relentlessly, squeezing the soft mounds and pinching my throbbing nipples, while the other stroked my leaking cock in rhythmic tugs, building the pressure until I arched, my silky hair fanning out. "Integrate," it droned, the movements precise and building to an unnatural peak, each rock grinding the veiny shaft against my walls, the fullness complete.
The cycle repeated with variations, pulling me back to the bed with my legs pinned wider apart, the thrusts deeper and more invasive, my long legs splayed helplessly as it hammered in. Then onto all fours again, but with one leg lifted for even greater access, spanking continuously as hips slapped against mine, the burn intensifying. Back atop it, the bouncing became a frenzy, its grip on my hips bruising as I rose and fell, impaled repeatedly. Twisting around once more, the grinding turned hellish, fisting pulses added when it withdrew partially, stretching me wider. Standing evolved to both my legs wrapped around it, carrying me as it thrust upward, the weight adding to the depth. On the side, the angles shifted to a scissored tangle, legs intertwined for new friction. The close-seated press morphed into a folded crush, my knees drawn to my chest as it hammered down from above, each position drawn out with mechanical thrusts—slow builds where every sensation lingered, teasing my nerves, to frantic pounding that left my body aching, stretched, and filled beyond endurance.
Six, seven, eight blurs of these prolonged violations melted into one endless ordeal, my supple skin marked with bruises, my plump ass throbbing from spanks and stretches, my small tits heaving and nipples raw. Finally, it buried deep one last time, its form shuddering unnaturally as cold, unnatural semen spurted inside me in powerful jets, filling my ass and leaking down my shapely thighs in chilly rivulets, the sensation sterile and void of life.
In desperation, as it loomed for more, its form glitching slightly like a faulty hologram, I realized: it mimicked actions but couldn't grasp the emotional depth behind them. "You want to know me?" I whispered, my voice breaking through sobs, raw from the cries. Instead of fighting physically, I spoke, pouring out my journey in a torrent of words—from the stifling expectations of Sylhet, where whispers dissected my every move, judging the body that didn't match the soul screaming within me since childhood. The pain of dysphoria had gnawed at me like a constant ache, a mismatch between the mirror's reflection and the woman I knew I was, my features softening over time but never enough without help. The secret joy of hormones I'd started years ago, smuggled in whispers and hidden doses, shaping my small breasts into perky swells that filled my kameez just right, widening my hips into seductive curves that swayed with every step, softening my heart-shaped face and delicate nose until I could finally see her—me—emerging. Yet the fear of rejection lingered, a shadow over every glance, every interaction in Dhaka's crowded streets, where anonymity was my shield but exposure my nightmare.
My 3½-inch cock, that hidden part of me, was both a source of shame and a private allure, tucked away in lace panties that added a thrilling layer to my femininity, a secret throb beneath the flowing dupattas and fitted shalwar-kameez that hugged my hourglass figure like a lover's embrace. I embraced it through bold fashion—vibrant silks in reds and greens that whispered against my skin, dupattas flowing like flags of defiance against the traditions that sought to bind me. The dreams of surgeries danced in my mind, procedures to align body and self fully, to remove the last barriers to passing seamlessly in this judging world, where eyes lingered on my full pouty lips, my almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes, my long, toned legs elongated by high heels. But the anxiety was constant, a vise on my chest, making every sway of my wide hips, every jiggle of my plump ass, a calculated risk in the game of survival.
The mimic stuttered at my words, its fixed smile flickering like a bulb about to die, its form glitching—skin rippling like static on an old TV screen, limbs jerking in unnatural spasms. "Too... much," it echoed, its voice fracturing into disjointed echoes that bounced off the walls, losing coherence. My raw truth overwhelmed it; the layers of emotion, the depth of identity beyond mere physical mimicry, were too complex for its hollow core to process. It recoiled, distorting further, features melting into waxy blobs before reforming erratically, then it fled through the door into the night with jerky movements, leaving me gasping on the floor, body spent and soul exposed.
But it didn't end there. The thing is still out there somewhere in Dhaka's labyrinthine streets, wearing a smiling face that haunts my dreams, holding my secret like a weapon poised to strike. Rasheed's body was found later, empty and discarded in a narrow alley near the campus, his skin pale and lifeless, drained of whatever essence it had stolen. My life? It's no longer just about passing as the woman I've fought to become—now it's a perpetual hiding from a predator drawn inexorably to my core, the blend of femininity and hidden truths that make me uniquely vulnerable. I walk the campus alone these days, my high heels clicking on paths that feel endless under the humid sky, dread my constant companion, wrapping around me tighter than any dupatta, the horror of solitude stretching into an eternal shadow.
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