College boy Sami crashes a housemate’s bike. Unable to pay, he faces a costly new arrangement with the five older men sharing his Dhaka mess.
I am Sami, seventeen years old, and Dhaka has been my world for nearly a year now. Notre Dame College swallows most of my days—lectures that drag on in overcrowded classrooms, the constant weight of upcoming exams, the quiet pressure of trying to stay near the top of the merit list so my parents back in Sylhet will not worry. Yet the real shape of my life sits only a few narrow alleys away from the campus gates. Our mess is a cramped two-storey house with peeling yellow paint, a rusted gate that never quite closes, and a common room that always carries the layered scent of cigarette smoke, leftover beef curry, and the damp concrete of monsoon season. Five older men share the place with me. They are not college boys like me. Some still chase degrees at the university; others already draw monthly salaries and talk about promotions and office politics. All of them treat me with a mixture of fondness and something heavier, something I feel every time their eyes linger a second too long.
Imran Hossain is twenty-six, a master’s student in economics at the University of Dhaka. He has a lean, restless frame, slightly wavy black hair that he leaves long enough to fall past his ears, a sharp jawline that catches the light when he turns his head, and warm brown eyes that soften whenever he smiles at me. Rafiq Ahmed is thirty-four, a mid-level officer at a private commercial bank in Motijheel. Medium height, broader through the shoulders, short neat black hair, clean-shaven cheeks, and rectangular glasses that make his calm face look older and more tired after long shifts. Fahim Rahman is the youngest of them after me, twenty-four, final-year undergraduate in computer science, slim and somewhat tall, with thick straight black hair that constantly slips over his forehead, expressive dark eyes, and a soft, still-boyish face that makes him look younger than he is. Karim Islam is thirty-seven, a government service holder in the Bangladesh Civil Service—Administration cadre. Average height, a little fuller around the middle, thinning hair at the temples, a short well-groomed mustache, and a serious, steady expression that rarely breaks even when the others are laughing. Tanvir Khan is twenty-nine, a marketing executive at a local telecom company. Athletic and energetic-looking, short cropped hair, light stubble, clear skin, a ready smile, and a small mole near his left eyebrow that draws the eye whenever he grins.
They like me. They say it openly, in the evenings when we sit around the low table eating rice and dal. They also look at me the way men look at girls on the street. My face is round and unmistakably soft—big dark eyes framed by long lashes, a narrow nose, full pouty lips that always seem a little swollen, as if they have just been kissed or bitten. Long black hair falls to my shoulders in a heavy silk curtain that I never bother to cut. At five-foot-five and sixty kilos I am soft everywhere that matters: a pair of high, girlish breasts that sit like warm handfuls on my chest and bounce with the slightest motion, hips that swell outward into a pronounced feminine curve, thick smooth thighs that press together when I stand, and an ass that is plump, heavy, and chunky—the kind that claps and jiggles when I walk, soft enough for fingers to sink into and firm enough to bounce when I bend. Between my legs sits a tiny, almost decorative micro cock—barely an inch and a half even when fully hard, flushed pink and leaking the moment anyone looks at me too long—with a tight little sac drawn up close to my body. Everything is smooth and hairless except the soft hair under my arms, the neat patch of pubes above my tiny cock, the fine hair on my scrotum, and the dark trail running down the cleft of my plump ass cheeks. Strangers constantly mistake me for a girl. I never correct them. The quiet, hungry heat that spreads low in my belly whenever men’s eyes drag over my soft tits or the curve of my hips is a secret I keep even from myself.
Imran owns a Yamaha R15—glossy black, sharp lines, expensive enough that the rest of us only ever looked at it from a respectful distance. I have always loved motorcycles even though I have never owned one and can barely keep a borrowed scooter upright on Dhaka’s chaotic roads. For months I pestered him every chance I got. “Just once, bhaiya, around the block. I swear I’ll be careful.” He would laugh, ruffle my long hair, and refuse. Then one Friday afternoon, when the others had gone out and the house was quiet, he finally tossed me the keys with a crooked grin. “Don’t scratch it, pretty boy. Bring it back in one piece.”
I did not. I crashed it on the very first corner. The front wheel slid on a patch of wet leaves near the tea stall, the bike went down hard, and the sound of cracking plastic and scraping metal filled the narrow lane. The fairing split, the exhaust bent, the glossy paint scraped raw down to the metal. I walked away with only a few scratches on my knees and elbows, heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears, already calculating how many months of my father’s salary the repair would cost.
Back in the common room the air turned thick the moment Imran saw the damage. He stood over me, face dark, voice low and shaking with controlled fury.
“Do you have any idea what that bike costs? Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
I stood in the middle of the room in my jeans and loose t-shirt, long black hair still messy from the fall, and shook my head. “I will pay, bhaiya. I swear on my life. Just give me time. I’ll find a way.”
Rafiq adjusted his glasses, the rectangular frames catching the dim tube light. “Time? That machine needs original parts. Some of them have to come from abroad. You think a college boy’s pocket money is going to cover even half of it?”
Fahim laughed without any humor in it, arms folded across his slim chest. “Look at him. Soft little thing. Probably never held a real job in his life. What is he going to do—sell notes to juniors?”
Karim’s mustache twitched as he studied me with that steady government-officer stare. “Middle-class family from Sylhet, isn’t it? Your people can’t afford this kind of damage, Sami. Be honest.”
Tanvir leaned against the wall near the window, athletic arms folded, the small mole near his left eyebrow catching the light when he tilted his head. “So how exactly do you plan to make it right? Talk is cheap.”
I swallowed, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. “Any way. Whatever it takes. I will work after classes, I will sell whatever I own, I will ask relatives—anything. Just don’t—”
Imran cut me off with a sharp gesture. “You don’t have that kind of money and you never will. Not before the bike rusts in some workshop. We all know it.”
The others nodded. The silence that followed felt heavier than the argument. Then Rafiq spoke again, slower this time, his eyes moving openly over my face, the soft swell of my chest under the thin cotton, the way my hips filled the jeans.
“It would be a shame to ruin that face by beating you. Soft skin, pretty mouth, those long lashes. You look more girl than boy already.”
They all laughed. The sound crawled under my skin like something living. I felt their gazes like actual hands—sliding over the high, girlish breasts that strained the fabric of my t-shirt, tracing the pronounced curve of my hips, lingering on the delicate line of my throat and the heavy silk of my hair.
Fahim tilted his head, thick hair falling into his eyes. “We haven’t been with a woman in months. Hostel life, bank shifts, government files, marketing targets—none of us has time or opportunity. And you… you already look the part. Soft everywhere a girl should be soft.”
Karim’s voice stayed steady, almost reasonable, the way he probably spoke in meetings. “Islam forbids lying with men. We are not gay. But look at you properly. Soft tits that bounce when you walk, wide hips, that heavy ass. Fucking you would not be like fucking a man at all. It would be like fucking a girl who happens to have a small problem between her legs.”
Tanvir’s ready smile returned, sharper now. “Exactly. A pretty little whore who happens to have a useless little cock between her legs. Once your college is over in another year, the debt will be considered cleared. Until then you belong to us. Body and all.”
I stepped back until my calves hit the edge of the low table. “No. I am not— I can’t do that. Please. There has to be another way.”
Imran’s hand closed on my shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His warm brown eyes had gone cold. “Two choices, Sami. Become our girl and pay with your body for a year, or put the full repair money on this table right now. Cash. Tonight.”
Silence stretched until it felt like it might snap. My mouth opened and closed
They surrounded me before I could take another step back. Hands reached from every side—rough, impatient, certain of their right to touch. I twisted, tried to push them away, voice rising in sharp protests that bounced uselessly off the walls of the small common room.
“Don’t—please, stop—let me go—”
But they were bigger, stronger, and the space left no room to escape. Imran’s fingers hooked under the hem of my loose t-shirt and yanked it up and over my head in one hard pull. The soft handfuls of my breasts bounced free, high and girlish, the warm tan-white skin already flushing under their eyes. Rafiq let out a low whistle, rectangular glasses glinting as he stared.
“Look at those,” he murmured. “Soft little tits on a college boy. Perfect.”
Fahim’s fingers found one nipple at once, pinching hard enough that a sharp gasp tore from my throat. The sensitive peak stiffened between his fingertips. He twisted it once, slow and deliberate, watching my face.
“Sensitive too. Good.”
Karim and Tanvir worked together on my jeans. Belts, buttons, zippers—everything gave way under their hands. They dragged the denim and my briefs down together until the fabric pooled around my ankles. I stood naked in the middle of the common room, long black hair spilling over my shoulders, soft breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath, hips curved and exposed, plump ass bare. My tiny micro cock—barely an inch and a half even half-hard—twitched under their stares, flushed pink and already starting to leak. The tight little sac beneath drew up close to my body.
Fahim laughed, still holding my nipple. “Look at that. Barely a cock at all. Cute little thing. Perfect for a girl.”
The others joined in. Imran’s warm brown eyes moved slowly over every soft curve. Rafiq adjusted his glasses as if to see better. Karim’s serious face showed no pity. Tanvir’s ready smile had turned sharp.
They forced me down. Hands on my shoulders, a foot against the back of my knee, until I dropped onto the worn concrete floor. The cold surface bit into my skin. Five men closed in around me, the scent of their bodies and the leftover curry in the air mixing into something heavier. One by one they freed themselves.
Imran’s cock was lean and six and a half inches, cut, the head already flushed and stiff, a clear bead of precum at the tip. Rafiq’s was thicker, a solid seven inches, heavy enough that it hung lower before he stroked it fully hard. Fahim’s was long and slim, almost eight inches, the shaft smooth and pale against his darker pubic hair. Karim’s was shorter but fat, six solid inches of thick girth that looked even wider in his hand. Tanvir’s was athletic and veined, seven inches, darkening as blood filled it, the head flaring.
Imran stepped closest, fist tight in my long black hair, forcing my face up. “Kiss it first,” he ordered, voice low. “Soft. Like you mean it.”
I shook my head, lips pressed tight. He pulled harder until my neck arched and a pained sound escaped me. The hot, smooth head of his cock brushed my pouty lips. “Kiss it, Simi.”
The name hit me like a slap. I parted my lips just enough to press a reluctant, closed-mouth kiss to the flushed tip. Salty heat bloomed against my skin. He laughed under his breath and rubbed the head back and forth across my mouth, smearing the bead of precum over my full lower lip.
“Again. Open a little. Lick.”
My tongue darted out, clumsy and shy, tasting salt and skin. He made me do it again and again—soft kisses, then longer licks along the underside of the head, then around the ridge—while the others watched and stroked themselves. Rafiq’s thicker cock brushed my cheek. Fahim’s long slim one rested against the other side of my face. Someone—Karim—reached down and grabbed a heavy handful of my plump, chunky ass, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh.
“Look at this,” Karim muttered, almost reverent. “Fat little ass on a boy. Soft as any girl’s. Jiggles when you squeeze it.” He lifted his hand and brought it down in a sharp, open-palmed slap. The sound cracked through the room. My thick cheeks bounced and rippled under the blow; the jiggle was impossible to miss. Another slap followed, harder, and the soft flesh clapped and shook. “We’re going to ruin this ass later. Stretch it open. Fuck it until she cries. But first she learns to use that pretty mouth.”
Tanvir chuckled, the mole near his eyebrow catching the light. “Womanish hips, womanish ass, and that useless little cock between her legs. Perfect.”
They made me start slow. Imran kept one hand in my hair and guided my face. “Stroke it while you kiss. Both hands. Gentle.” My small fingers closed around the lean shaft. I stroked awkwardly while I kissed and licked the head, then the underside, then lower. When he ordered me to lick his balls I hesitated; a sharp tug on my hair brought my mouth down. I lapped at the tight sac, tasting skin and faint sweat, then carefully sucked one ball between my pouty lips while my hands kept working the shaft above.
Rafiq took his place next. He was slower, more deliberate, rectangular glasses glinting as he watched. “Spit on it. Get it wet. Then kiss the tip like a good girl.” I obeyed, saliva dripping down the thick shaft. I pressed soft kisses to the heavy head, then longer, wetter ones, until he told me to open wider and suck just the tip. My lips stretched around the flared head. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked gently while my tongue swirled underneath. “That’s it. Stroke the rest. Fondle the balls.” One of my hands wrapped around the thick shaft; the other cupped and rolled his heavy sac. He hummed approval and let me practice like that for long minutes—kissing, licking, sucking only the head, learning the weight and heat of him—while Karim’s broad hands kept returning to my ass. Slap. Squeeze. Spread. Another sharp spank that made the plump cheeks jiggle and clap together. “Fat, soft, perfect for fucking,” Karim said, voice steady. “Can’t wait to bury my cock between these cheeks.”
Fahim was less patient but still followed the slow training at first. He made me lick the entire length of his long slim cock from base to tip, then back down, then suck each of his balls into my mouth one at a time while both hands stroked the pale shaft. Only when my lips were shiny and my jaw already beginning to ache did he push the head past them and hold me there, forcing me to suck and swirl my tongue while he murmured, “Deeper later. First learn to suck it.”
Tanvir preferred to slap my face lightly with his veined cock between lessons, leaving shiny wet streaks across my round cheeks, then make me kiss and lick the streaks away before sucking the head clean. Every time my attention wandered, someone—usually Karim or Imran—delivered another ringing slap to my heavy ass. The soft flesh bounced and rippled; the men watched it jiggle with open hunger.
“Look at that ass clap,” Tanvir said, grinning. “Thick as a girl’s. We’re going to take turns in it. Stretch that tight little hole until it remembers the shape of every cock here.”
My protests grew weaker. Every time I tried to pull away, a fist tightened in my long black hair or an open palm cracked across my cheek or, more often now, across the plump curve of my ass. The physical sting was sharp—scalp burning, jaw straining, ass cheeks heating and stinging—but the humiliation burned hotter. I was on my knees on the dirty concrete, naked, soft high breasts rising and falling, tiny micro cock stiff and leaking between my thick thighs, while five older men taught my mouth how to serve them and openly planned how they would eventually fuck my fat, womanish ass.
They kept the lessons deliberate at first. Kiss the tip. Lick the underside. Spit and stroke until it shone. Suck just the head, soft and wet. Take one ball, then the other, into my mouth and roll it with my tongue while both hands worked the shaft. Only after long minutes of that did they begin to push deeper—half the length, then a little more—training my throat slowly, forcing me to breathe through my nose and swallow around the intrusion.
Fahim was the first to use the new name consistently. “That’s it, Simi. Open wider for us. Use that soft little tongue.”
The others picked it up at once.
“Look at Simi’s little tits bounce when she sucks.”
“Simi’s mouth was made for this. Soft and wet.”
“Pretty Simi with her useless micro cock leaking all over the floor. And that fat ass just begging to be fucked.”
I was forced to stroke two cocks while a third filled my mouth. My small hands struggled to wrap around Rafiq’s thick shaft and Tanvir’s veined one at the same time. They competed for access, pushing against my stretched cheeks, smearing clear precum across my pouty, swollen lips until everything tasted of salt and skin. Karim’s hands never left my ass for long—spreading the soft, heavy cheeks, exposing the tight untouched hole, brushing a thumb over it in slow circles, then delivering another firm slap that sent the plump flesh jiggling. Each impact made my tiny cock twitch harder against my thigh.
The physical pain was sharp, but the humiliation and the growing heat twisted together inside me. Somewhere under the protests that still escaped whenever a cock left my lips, under the tears and the gagging, a quiet, traitorous warmth had begun to pool low in my belly.
Somewhere past the first long stretch of training something inside me began to shift. My body, which had fought and twisted and resisted, started to move differently. My tongue, clumsy and reluctant at first, learned the shape of each shaft—the lean ridge along the underside of Imran’s, the heavy thickness of Rafiq’s that filled my mouth so completely, the long slim length of Fahim’s that seemed to go on forever, the fat girth of Karim’s that stretched my lips wide, the veined athletic hardness of Tanvir’s that pulsed against my tongue. My throat, raw and burning, opened a fraction more with every careful, then less careful, push. When Imran gripped my long black hair and drove deeper again, I no longer thrashed as hard. I swallowed around him instead, feeling the hot pulse of his cock against the soft palate at the back of my mouth, and a low, traitorous sound escaped my throat.
Heat pooled low in my belly, heavy and unwanted. My tiny micro cock—barely an inch and a half of flushed pink flesh—twitched and leaked steadily onto the worn concrete between my knees, a thin clear string connecting the tip to the floor. I hated the way my hips shifted forward on their own, the way my eyes watered not only from the depth but from something darker and quieter that I refused to name. My soft, high breasts jiggled with every bob of my head, the sensitive nipples still throbbing from earlier pinches, and the cool air of the common room brushed over the saliva that had dripped down my chin and across the warm tan-white curves. Behind me Karim kept working my ass—squeezing, spreading, slapping—marveling openly at how the fat cheeks clapped and shook.
They noticed at once.
Tanvir’s voice came rough with satisfaction. “She’s getting into it. Look at those eyes. Little whore is starting to like having her mouth used. And that ass—fuck, the way it jiggles when you spank it. Can’t wait to bury my cock between those soft cheeks.”
Rafiq’s thicker cock rested heavy on my tongue while my small hands stroked Fahim’s long slim shaft and Karim’s fat one. He looked down at me through his rectangular glasses, calm and deliberate. “Suck the head properly, Simi. Worship it with that swollen mouth. Show us you understand.”
I did. Shame burned in my chest even as my lips closed softly around the flared head. I licked the ridge beneath it with slow, careful strokes of my tongue, then sucked, hollowing my cheeks, letting thick saliva run down the heavy shaft before I followed the wet trail with my pouty lips. The taste of his skin—salt and heat and the faint bitterness of precum—filled my mouth. When they ordered me lower I obeyed. I took each of Rafiq’s balls carefully into my mouth one at a time, rolling the tight sac with my tongue while my hand worked the thick shaft above. The fine hair there tickled my lips. The smell of five aroused men surrounded me—sweat, skin, the lingering scent of cigarette smoke from earlier—until it was all I could breathe.
My soft breasts continued to jiggle with every forced movement of my head and shoulders. Karim’s broad hands kept returning to my plump, heavy ass. He spread the soft cheeks with both palms, exposing the tight, untouched hole between them to the cool air, and brushed his thumb over it in slow, promising circles. Each pass of that thumb sent a jolt through me that made my tiny cock twitch harder against my thigh. Another sharp slap landed; the fat cheeks bounced and rippled under the impact.
“Womanish little ass,” Karim said, almost thoughtful. “Soft, thick, made to take cock. We’re going to fuck this every night until the debt is paid.”
They kept rotating, but the pace had changed. The “training” was still rough, still laced with mockery, yet now they demanded more from me—deeper, wetter, more eager.
“Deeper, Simi. Swallow around it.”
“Use your tongue under the head. Yes—like that.”
“Spit on it again. Make it messy. Good girl.”
“Stroke the balls while you suck. Don’t neglect them.”
Imran pulled my hair until my neck arched and fucked my throat in steady strokes, his lean six-and-a-half-inch cock sliding wetly between my stretched lips. “Listen to her,” he said to the others, voice tight. “She’s moaning around it now.”
I was. The sounds left me without permission—soft, broken, wet—every time a thick head pushed past the resistance of my throat. Fahim took his turn next, long and slim, almost eight inches, and held me with both hands while he rolled his hips. Tears ran freely down my round cheeks, but my tongue still worked the underside of his shaft, and my hips still shifted restlessly above the concrete.
“Pretty little thing,” Fahim murmured. “Look at those soft tits bounce. Look at that useless micro cock leaking for us. And that fat ass—Karim can’t keep his hands off it.”
Karim’s fat six inches stretched my lips wide again. He made me suck each of his balls while I stroked the thick shaft with both hands, saliva running down over my fingers. Behind me Tanvir delivered another firm slap to my heavy cheeks, watching them jiggle and clap. “Pretty face looks better with cock on it,” he murmured, smiling that ready smile, then pushed back into my mouth and held himself there until my nose pressed into his skin.
“Breathe through it, Simi. That’s what your mouth is for now. And later that tight little hole between those soft cheeks is going to learn the same lesson.”
The humiliation and the heat twisted together inside me. My jaw ached. My throat felt scraped raw. My nipples throbbed. My plump ass stung and burned from the repeated hard squeezes and spanks, the soft flesh still quivering. And still my tiny cock stood stiff and leaking, the tight sac drawn up close, and still that quiet hunger low in my belly refused to die.
After more than an hour of rotating—of being taught to kiss, lick, stroke, fondle, and suck, of having my long black hair pulled until my scalp burned, of open palms cracking across my cheeks and the fat curves of my ass, of fingers pinching and twisting my sensitive nipples until they were raw and dark—they finally stepped back for a moment.
I knelt there in the center of the common room, chest rising and falling hard. My lips were swollen and shiny, chin coated in saliva, long black hair tangled and stuck to my wet cheeks. My soft, girlish breasts trembled with every breath. Between my thick thighs my little cock stood stiff and flushed, a steady drip of clear fluid falling from the tip to the concrete, the tight sac underneath drawn up close to my body. Behind me my plump, heavy ass glowed from the spanks, the soft cheeks marked with red handprints. The taste of all five of them coated my tongue. The smell of their arousal filled every breath I took.
Imran looked at the others, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, warm brown eyes dark with intent. “Mouth is trained enough. Time to take the rest of her virginity.”
I looked up, dark eyes wide, heart slamming against my ribs. The words tore out of me raw and desperate.
“No—please—not that—please, anything else—”
They only smiled.
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