Chapter 4

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sterile white reflections across the institutional tile floor. Samyukta’s breath hitched as Manish’s shadow stretched long and predatory across the wall—a silhouette of impending violation. His polished loafers clicked against the linoleum with deliberate slowness, each step echoing like a countdown to her undoing.

“Professor,” he crooned, tilting his head with mock reverence. The honorific dripped with sarcasm, heavy as honey laced with venom. His fingers—manicured, confident—brushed the silk tie of her petticoat. The knot unraveled with obscene ease, the fabric slithering down her trembling legs to pool at her ankles like a discarded second skin. His breathing on the exposed thighs, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Tch.” Manish’s tongue clicked in theatrical disappointment as he eyed her plain cotton panties. “Such a waste.” His palm pressed flush against her mound, the heat of his touch searing through the thin fabric. “A woman with these curves should be wrapped in lace. Silk that clings. Maybe something sheer enough to see this pretty pussy through.” His thumb dug in, circling just enough to make her hips jerk involuntarily. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll pick out something ... educational.”

Behind him, Aqeel’s camera shutter clicked relentlessly—a metronome of humiliation. The flash painted her pallid skin in stark bursts, each snapshot searing her degradation into permanence.

“Dhan-te-dhan!” Manish sang, butchering the Bollywood lyric as two fingers hooked into her waistband. The elastic snapped against her hips before yielding, the final barrier slinking down to join the petticoat. Samyukta squeezed her eyes shut, but not fast enough—a single tear breached her lashes, gliding down her cheekbone like liquid shame.

“Ahhh, there it is.” Manish caught the tear on his knuckle, bringing it to his lips with a groan of delight. “Salt and sorrow. My favorite flavor.” His breath fogged against her damp skin as he licked a stripe up her face, nostrils flaring at her shudder. “Cry harder, Professor. Let them see how the mighty fall.”

She shook her head, jaw clenched so tight her molars ached. But her body betrayed her—nipples pebbling under the chilled air, thighs quivering where they stood forced apart.

“Interesting,” Manish murmured, suddenly crouching to eye-level with her exposed sex. His index finger traced the neatly trimmed strip of hair, his chuckle vibrating against her inner thigh. “Jiten’s influence, I assume? Very ... cosmopolitan.” The word dripped with derision. His nail scraped the sensitive skin bordering the strip, drawing a whimper from her throat. “The girls I fuck usually come fully shaved or wild as jungle brush. But this?” He blew a stream of warm air across her folds, watching the tiny hairs tremble. “This is art.”

Another tear escaped. Then another. Manish lapped at them hungrily, his free hand spreading her wider, exposing glistening pink to the fluorescent glare. “There’s my good girl,” he cooed, thumb finding her clit with cruel precision. “Your cunt’s prettier when it’s crying too.”

The dam broke. Sobs racked her chest as Manish’s thumb drew slow, taunting circles—just enough pressure to kindle unwanted heat low in her belly. Aqeel’s camera captured every twitch, every tear, every traitorous hitch of her breath when Manish’s tongue replaced his thumb.

“No—please—” The plea tore from her raw throat as Manish nuzzled into her curls, inhaling deeply. “Not there, not—”

“But Professor,” he purred against her inner thigh, teeth grazing the tender flesh. “Your syllabus said ‘hands-on learning.’” His lips sealed over her clit with a wet pop, tongue flicking like a serpent tasting prey.

A strangled cry echoed off the tiles as Samyukta’s head bowed down in shame—only to be caught by Manish’s iron grip. “look up,” he commanded, the vibration of his voice thrumming through her core. “Let the class see how a proper cunt drips.”

And drip she did.

“No, please—” Samyukta’s protest died in her throat as Manish’s tongue flicked out to trace the outline of her sex with obscene precision. Every nerve ending seemed to scream in protest—or was it anticipation? —as his tongue dragged upwards to circle her swollen clit. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers twisting in the restraints binding her wrists above her head, as if she could physically will herself away from this violation. But her traitorous hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk when his tongue dipped lower to probe at her entrance, the wet sound of his ministrations loud in the quiet room.

“Smile for the camera, professor.” Aqeel’s voice came from somewhere near her left shoulder, followed by the unmistakable click of a smartphone camera. Manish obligingly glanced up with his tongue still pressed flat against Samyukta’s clit, grinning around the intimate contact as he flashed a thumbs up. The humiliation burned hotter than any physical touch as Samyukta realized they were documenting every twitch, every helpless reaction her body betrayed.

She tried desperately to detach—to think of bloodied battlefields, of starving children, of anything that might quell the rising heat between her thighs. But Manish had learned his craft well in the brothels he frequented. His tongue moved with practiced precision, alternating broad, languid strokes with sudden sharp flicks that sent jolts of electricity straight to her core. Within minutes, Samyukta’s breathing turned ragged, her chest rising and falling rapidly enough that her breasts swayed visibly with each gasping inhale.

The first moan slipped out unbidden—a long, shuddering “Mmmmmnnnnnn” that seemed to echo in the suddenly attentive silence of the room. Samyukta bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper, but it was too late. The dam had broken.

“Is she...?” Suraj’s whisper held equal parts awe and amusement.

Manish pulled back just enough to smirk. “Told you I’d make her sing.” His breath ghosted over her wetness as he spoke, and to Samyukta’s utter horror, her hips lifted shamelessly off the chair seeking more contact. The realization that her body was actively participating in its own debasement sent hot tears spilling down her cheeks even as another moan tore from her throat.

The rhythm changed then—Manish’s tongue tracing rapid, insistent X-shapes over her hypersensitive clit while his friends watched with rapt attention. Samyukta’s thighs trembled violently as pleasure and shame twisted together in her gut, the sensations building to an unbearable peak. “Mmmmmm ... hunhunhunhun...” The sounds escaping her now were animalistic, broken by hitched sobs as her orgasm ripped through her with devastating force.

Her back arched clear off the chair, restraints straining as her body convulsed uncontrollably. The orgasm seemed to last forever—wave after wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, all while Suraj’s laughter and Aqeel’s shutter clicks documented her complete surrender. When she finally collapsed back onto the sweat-damp chair, spent and shaking, Manish wiped his glistening chin with the back of his hand and rose to his full height.

“Show me the goods.” He snatched the phone from Aqeel, swiping through close-ups of Samyukta’s tear-streaked face contorted in ecstasy. “Look at you, professor. Even crying, you’re fucking gorgeous when you come.” He thrust the screen toward her, forcing her to confront the undeniable arousal in her own glazed eyes and parted lips.

Samyukta turned her face away, but not before catching a glimpse of herself—cheeks flushed, nipples pebbled tight, body arched in abandon—a far cry from the composed academic professor hours earlier. The realization that they’d captured her most vulnerable moment forever made her stomach lurch.

“You should be thanking me,” Manish continued, unbuckling his belt with theatrical flair. “Could’ve just fucked you raw. But I wanted to taste you first.” His jeans slid down narrow hips to reveal an erection that made Samyukta nearly laugh through her tears—it was stubby, unimpressive, the physical manifestation of the overcompensation driving his cruelty.