“Lock the door.”
The words snapped through the heavy air of the empty staff room, sharp and urgent.
Rupa Bose froze, chalk dust still clinging to the crisp cotton of her beige saree. Her hand instinctively clutched the edge of her pallu tightly around her chest, her heart thudding loudly in her ears.
Before her, three students—Naman, Vicky, and Kabir—stood blocking the only exit. They were predatory, grinning, and their eyes flashed with something darker than teenage mischief.
“W-what is this nonsense?” Rupa barked, trying to summon the strict authority that had cowed so many students before. But her voice trembled. And they heard it. Smelled it.
“Relax, Rupa Ma’am,” Kabir smirked, tossing a cheap Android phone into the air and catching it lazily. “We just need to…talk.”
Naman – tall, broad-shouldered, the clear leader – leaned against the door, bolting it with a loud click.
Vicky – wiry, sly-eyed – flicked the light switch. The room plunged into a dim, sickly half-darkness.
“Or maybe you wanna explain this?”
Kabir tapped the phone screen. Rupa’s stomach dropped. The grainy video lit up – and there she was. Bent over the gymnasium mats, she hiked her saree indecently over her hips. The blouse pulled down to free her heaving boobs.
Raghav Bedi, the young, muscular sports teacher, pounded into her from behind like an animal, grunting into her ear. Rupa gasped, one manicured hand flying to her mouth. Her cheeks blazed.
“You filthy little!” she hissed, lunging forward.
But Naman blocked her with a single heavy hand on her shoulders, easily keeping her in place. “Ah ah, Ma’am. Not so fast.”
“You wouldn’t want your husband getting this in his inbox, would you? Or maybe the principal? The college WhatsApp group,” Vicky drawled, his voice dripping poison.
Rupa staggered back, fury and fear warring in her chest. “You disgusting bastards!” she spat, but her voice broke. She could already see it: the ruined reputation, the whispered gossip, the humiliation. Her husband Soumen found out, as did her parents and the college committee.
Her thighs pressed together. She was wet. She hated herself.
“Tell you what,” Naman said, stepping closer until she could smell the cheap deodorant and raw sweat on him. “You be a good little Ma’am for us, and this stays between us.”
“You… you can’t… I’ll call the police!” she gasped, chest heaving under the tight pallu.
Kabir snorted. “You think they’ll side with the whore fucking a coworker like a bitch in heat?”
Their words slapped her harder than any hand could have.
Her body was betraying her – nipples pebbling hard under the tight, padded cups of her lacy black bra, dampness pooling between her thighs under the silk of her panties.
“Wh-what do you want?” she croaked.
The boys grinned like hyenas.
Naman brushed his knuckles over the bare skin of her arm – a sick parody of tenderness.
“Strip.” He said simply.
Silence.
Rupa’s knees locked. Her mouth opened – then shut. Rage and horror roared in her skull.
But slowly, mechanically, as if she were their puppet, her trembling hands reached for the tucked pallu. Every nerve in her body screamed. Every inch of her upbringing, her pride, her dignity recoiled.
But the part between her legs – the part starved by months of loneliness, of Soumen’s absence – throbbed. She dropped her pallu.
The beige saree slithered to the floor in a whisper. The white petticoat fell to her ankles. The matching blouse came off shamelessly. Underneath, Rupa Bose – the strict, feared professor – was wrapped in sheer black lingerie.
A deep-cut satin bra, straining to contain the generous swell of her Bengali breasts. A matching thong of delicate lace, the thin string vanishing between the ripe cheeks of her ass. A hint of a mole on the curve of her hip.
A thin, golden waist chain glittered above her navel, kissing the smooth caramel of her skin. The boys sucked in breath audibly.
“Fucking hell, Ma’am,” Vicky murmured, his voice hoarse. “You’re a full-on porn star under all that sanskaari shit.”
“Turn around,” Naman ordered. His voice brooked no argument.
Rupa turned slowly, cheeks burning. Her bare back arched instinctively – she was made to be looked at, even when she hated it. The black thong disappeared deliciously into the cleft of her ass. The waist chain trembled with every tiny movement.
“Bend over the desk,” Kabir said, voice thick with lust. “Show us that juicy ass properly, Ma’am.”
Rupa opened her mouth to protest. Naman stepped closer. One hand was tangled roughly in her hair, yanking her head back.
“Don’t make us show this video to everyone right now, slut.” He growled. “You want to keep us quiet, don’t you?”
Tears blurred Rupa’s vision. Her thighs shook. But she obeyed.
Slowly, she bent over the dusty staff room desk, hands bracing herself, ass pushed out lewdly. The cool air kissed her exposed skin. The lace thong framed her full, trembling ass cheeks perfectly.
The boys gathered around her. Dirty words filled the air – hot, degrading, and relentless.
“Look at that fat ass, begging for cock.”
“Bet you dribble from that pussy whenever someone spanks you.”
“Fucking slut, professor. You ain’t no teacher – you’re a street whore dressed in a saree.”
One of them – she didn’t know who – smacked her ass hard. The crack echoed in the silent room.
Rupa gasped. Her pussy spasmed. A dark, wet patch bloomed on the thong, clearly visible. The boys exploded into laughter. “Holy fuck, Ma’am. You’re getting off to this?”
“No… no, I’m not!” Rupa whispered brokenly. But she knew she was lying. To them. To herself.
Naman pulled her thong aside, exposing her glistening, pink folds to the hungry eyes.
“Fucking dripping, Ma’am,” he murmured in disbelief.
“You dirty bitch. You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
Rupa sobbed in shame, but her lips rolled involuntarily. Begging. Needing. Humiliating herself further.
“Rub yourself.” The command came sharply and clearly.
Rupa shook her head, desperate. Another hard slap to her exposed pussy made her yelp and obey. Trembling fingers reached between her thighs, finding her slick clit, rubbing gently, shamefully, under the brutal gaze of her students.
She was soaking herself. Clenching. Fucking herself with her fingers while three younger men watched her like wolves. The orgasm built fast. Furious.
“Say it.” Naman hissed into her ear. “Say you’re a filthy fucking slut, Ma’am.”
“I…I…” Rupa choked.
Another slap. Harder.
“SAY IT!”
“I’m… I’m a filthy slut…” she sobbed, shame coating every word. “A filthy slut, rubbing my pussy for my students.”
Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and uncontrollable. She squirmed, trembling violently, juices drenching her inner thighs and the staffroom desk.
The boys cheered. Laughed. High-fived.
Rupa collapsed forward onto the desk, gasping, tears streaking her mascara, her dignity lying broken on the dusty floor. And the worst part? Deep inside. A dark, horrifying pleasure pulsed. The pleasure of being seen, used, ruined.
This was only the beginning.
To be continued.
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