Chapter 9: The Ragging Ritual
That mechanical buzz against my clit as I stared at my own stripped and shivering image on screen—it was a violation that split me in two. There was the me on the television, a thing of pity. And there was the me in the chair, a thing being manually rewired, pleasure forced into the circuitry of shame.
“She can feel it,” I whispered, the words sticking. Arjun’s eyes were on me, not the screen. “She can feel it leaking out of her. It makes her feel… filthy.”
“Louder.”
“It makes her feel filthy!” I said, my voice cracking. The vibration was a constant, low thrum, summoning a slickness that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with biological treason.
“Good,” Arjun breathed. He stood, walked behind my chair, and placed his hands on my shoulders. His grip was firm. “Now tell me she likes it. Tell me that little cunt is getting wet thinking about being full of a stranger’s come.”
I watched my frozen, pathetic face. I pushed the vibrator harder against myself. A sharp, dizzying bolt of sensation shot up my spine. “She likes it,” I choked out. “Her cunt is getting wet. She’s a slut.” Saying it, hearing the words hang in the cigar-thick air, made them feel true. A hot tear tracked down my cheek.
“That’s my girl,” he cooed, his fingers digging into my collarbones. “Now keep it there. Keep it right on that throbbing little bean. And don’t you dare cum. This is just the warm-up.”
He returned to the bed, lying back, his cock hard and ready. He picked up a remote. The video changed. It was a different clip. Me, from two days prior, bent over my bed with the hairbrush. The sickening thwack of plastic on flesh filled the room, syncing with the buzz in my hand.
“Commentary,” Arjun demanded, stroking himself in time with the spanks on screen.
I was dissolving. The past and present fused into one continuous humiliation. “She’s taking it,” I gasped. The pleasure was building, a terrifying wave under the strict command not to crest. “She’s crying. But her pussy is dripping. You can see it on the brush. She’s a fucking pathetic mess.”
“She is,” he agreed, his hips lifting off the bed. “And who owns that mess?”
“You do,” I whined, the compulsion slamming into me, a script I’d learned by now. “Master does.”
“Prove it. Crawl over here and clean my cock with your mouth while you watch your ass get redder.”
I stumbled from the chair, the vibrator still pressed to me, the cord trailing. I knelt by the bed, taking him into my mouth. On screen, I screamed into my gag. The taste of him, the vibration, the visuals—it was a sensory overload designed to short-circuit my mind. I suckled him, my eyes glued to my own punishment.
“Use your hand, slut. Make me come.”
I obeyed, working him with my mouth and fist, the buzz between my legs a maddening counterpoint. He came quickly, with a gutteral groan, spilling onto my tongue and chin. I swallowed, automatically.
“Good communicator,” he panted, pushing my head away. He sat up, zipped himself. “See? When you engage, it’s better for everyone. Now turn that thing off.”
The sudden silence between my legs was almost worse. The aching need, denied release, buzzed in a new, empty way. He tossed me a packet of tissues. “Clean up. Master has a field exercise for you. Tonight.”
The rooftop at twilight was a forgotten place, a concrete slab strewn with old cable reels and dead plants in broken pots. The humid air wrapped around me like a wet sheet. I’d been sent here with a single instruction: Wait for your next lesson. Wear your uniform.
So I stood, my school kameez feeling impossibly childish, the pleated skirt a joke. The dying sun painted everything in bruised gold and purple. I heard the heavy door to the stairs creak open before I saw them.
Four of them. Seniors. Boys I vaguely knew from the college gates, faces I’d seen laughing too loud, smoking in the bike shed. Rohan’s friends. Vikram’s nephew, Dev’s cousin. The web was everywhere.
Abhishek led them. He was the ringleader, captain of the rowing team, all broad shoulders and a smirk that promised gentle cruelty. He held something small and plastic between his fingers.
“Look what we found loitering,” he said, his voice warm as the evening. The others fanned out, a loose circle. My heart tried to thrash its way out of my ribs.
“Master said you needed practical application,” Abhishek continued, stepping closer. He showed me the object: a small, egg-shaped vibrator, pale pink. A remote was clipped to his belt. “A test of your communication skills. In a… dynamic environment.”
One of the others, Sanjay, chuckled. “Dynamic.”
My mouth was desert-dry. I understood. The rooftop was exposed. The street below wasn’t empty. The city sounds floated up—scooters, a vendor’s call, a distant prayer from a mosque.
“The lesson is simple,” Abhishek said. He reached out, not touching me, but his hand hovered over the waistband of my skirt. “We’re going to put this inside you. And you’re going to stand here, at the railing, looking out at the city. And you’re going to talk to us. You’re going to tell us exactly what it feels like. And if you’re a good girl, if your description is… vivid enough… we might let you come.”
Sanjay stepped behind me. His hands landed on my hips, pulling me against him. I felt the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans. “If you’re not,” he whispered in my ear, “we’ll turn it up to high and send you home to Papa with it buzzing in your cunt all through dinner. And maybe tomorrow, during his big faculty meeting, we’ll give you a little reminder.”
The threat was so specific, so venomous, it paralyzed me. Appa’s pride, his stern, devout face at the head of that conference table—the juxtaposition was soul-murder.
Abhishek’s fingers hooked into the waistband of my skirt and underwear, pulling them down just enough. The humid evening air kissed my exposed skin. I heard the click of a bottle, the cold gel. I bit my lip until I tasted copper.
“Legs apart, Sara,” Abhishek instructed softly, like a teacher.
I obeyed. Sanjay held me from behind, his grip firm. I felt the blunt, plastic nub press against me, then slide in with a sickening ease. It was small, but its presence was monstrous. A tiny, invisible engine lodged inside my most private flesh.
Abhishek tucked the skirt back into place, the fabric now a fragile shield. He stepped back, appraising me. The other two, Rahul and Ketan, stood watching, their eyes gleaming in the half-light.
“Okay. To the railing. Hands on the metal. Look out,” Abhishek ordered.
I walked on trembling legs, the faint, muted hum inside me a secret scream. I gripped the rusted, warm railing. Below, the world continued, innocent and oblivious. A woman hung laundry on a balcony. An old man walked a dog.
The remote clicked.
A low pulse began, a deep, internal throbbing. I jerked.
“Describe,” Abhishek said, leaning on the railing next to me, his posture casual. To anyone below, we were just a group of students talking.
“It’s… on,” I managed.
“Weak,” Sanjay said from behind me. He pressed his body against my back, his hands roaming over my skirt, groping my ass. “Use better words, you literate little slut.”
The pulse intensified. It wasn’t sharp, but it was relentless, a relentless fist clenching and unclenching deep in my core. My knuckles were white on the railing.
“It’s… throbbing,” I breathed. “Inside. It feels… deep. It’s making my heart beat there.”
“Better,” Abhishek nodded. He glanced at the remote, turned a dial.
The vibration shifted to a higher frequency, a sharp, insistent buzz that made my thighs quiver. A gasp ripped from my throat.
“Now?” he prompted.
“It’s sharper,” I whined. Sanjay’s hand slid between my legs from behind, cupping me over my skirt, grinding the fabric against the buzzing egg. The double sensation, internal and external, was catastrophic. “It’s like… a sting. A buzzing sting. I can feel it in my teeth.”
“Is your cunt wet?” Rahul asked, moving to my other side.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, it’s wet,” I moaned, shame a fire in my veins. It was. I was soaked. The proof was probably darkening my skirt where Sanjay rubbed.
“Let’s check,” Ketan said. He knelt in front of me, between me and the railing, hidden from the street. With a quick, brutal motion, he shoved my skirt up around my waist. The evening air was a shock on my bare skin. He yanked my underwear down to my knees. “Fuck. She’s dripping. Absolutely greedy for it.”
Exposed, humiliated, the device buzzing angrily inside me, I was pinned. Sanjay held me up from behind. Ketan stared between my legs. Abhishek and Rahul watched my face.
“Please,” I whispered, not even knowing what I was begging for.
“Please what?” Abhishek breathed. He turned the remote to its highest setting.
The world shattered into a static of pure sensation. It was a violent, jackhammering buzz that erased thought. My legs buckled. Sanjay held me fast. A raw, broken noise tore from my throat—not a scream, not a moan, something entirely animal.
“DESCRIBE IT!” Abhishek commanded, his voice cutting through the haze.
“It’s too much!” I sobbed, my body convulsing against Sanjay. “It’s—it’s fucking electric, it’s tearing me apart, I can’t—I can’t think—” The words were mashed together, dragged from a place of utter ruin. My hips were moving, rocking against the terrible, wonderful vibration against my will. “It’s going to make me come, oh god, please, I’m going to come!”
“Beg for it,” Sanjay growled, biting my shoulder through the thin cotton of my kameez. “Beg prettily.”
The climax was building, a tsunami of shame and forced pleasure. “Please! Please let me come! I’m a slut, I’m a filthy, begging slut, just please let me come!” The words flooded out, a poison I’d been forced to drink now cascading from my lips.
Abhishek’s thumb hovered over the remote. He shared a look with the others, a smirk of pure power. “Alright,” he said softly. “Come for us, Sara. Let the whole city hear you.”
He didn’t turn it off. He left it on high.
It broke me. The orgasm slammed into me with the force of a truck, a wrenching, brutal seizure that had me screaming into the twilight, my body rigid against Sanjay’s, my vision whiting out. It wasn’t pleasure. It was annihilation. It went on and on, the device mercilessly prolonging the spasms until I was a sobbing, boneless weight held up only by his arms.
Finally, with a click, it stopped. The silence inside me was a vast, hollow cathedral.
Sanjay let me sink to the gritty rooftop, my skirts a mess around me. Ketan stood, wiping his hand on his jeans. They looked down at me, four dark shapes against the deepening blue sky.
Abhishek knelt. He tucked the remote into my school bag. He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear. “Good communication,” he whispered, echoing Arjun. “Master will be pleased. Now get yourself together. Your mother expects you home for prayers.”
They left, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. The door clanged shut.
I lay there for a long time, the cool concrete against my cheek. The scent of my own arousal was thick in the air, mixed with diesel and distant jasmine. Inside me, the egg was just a silent, plastic lump. A sleeper agent. A reminder.
Slowly, aching in every muscle and soul, I pulled my clothes back into place. I stood, gripping the railing. The city’s lights were starting to wink on, a thousand homes where normal lives were being lived.
In my bag, my phone lit up. A single message from Master.
Transcript received. Eloquent. The device is a gift. Keep it in until I say otherwise. Your father’s meeting is at 10 AM tomorrow. Be mindful.
I closed my eyes. The vibration was just a memory now. But the threat was live, wires running straight from my violated body to the sanctity of my father’s world. The lesson hadn’t been on the rooftop. The lesson was walking home with me, sitting at the dinner table, kneeling at prayers. The lesson was forever.