It all started with ragging

The ragging session had been going on for three days straight in the boys’ hostel of our engineering college in Pune. As a shy first-year from a small town in Kerala, I was an easy target. The seniors—mostly final-year guys from the mechanical and CS branches—had already made me dance like a monkey, chug raw eggs, and sing film songs in my underwear. But tonight, they wanted something “special.”
“Arre, this fresher looks too pretty for a boy,” said Rohan, the tall, muscular head of the ragging gang, with a wicked grin. His friends laughed, already tipsy on cheap whiskey. They dragged me to the common room on the top floor, doors locked, curtains drawn. Someone brought out a big bag.
“Time to make you our college rani,” another senior, Vikram, chuckled as they stripped me completely naked. I was trembling, too scared to protest much. They shaved my body smooth with cold razors, powdered me, and started dressing me up.
First came the black lace panties that barely contained me. Then a padded bra. They wrapped a deep red silk saree around my waist with expert hands—petticoat tight, blouse low-cut and backless, showing off my smooth back. One of them even applied makeup: dark kohl, red lipstick, bindi, and long fake earrings. My short hair was covered with a matching dupatta pinned like a woman’s hair. When they made me look in the mirror, I barely recognized myself—a curvy, blushing “girl” in a traditional saree, pallu draped seductively over one shoulder.
“Look at her, bhai! Perfect randi material,” Rohan laughed, slapping my padded ass. They forced bangles on my wrists and anklets on my feet. The tinkling sound made me feel utterly humiliated and strangely vulnerable.
The “game” started. They made me serve them drinks, walking in the saree, hips swaying because of the petticoat. Every time I stumbled, they pinched my waist or thighs. Then Rohan pulled me onto his lap.
“Time for the real ragging, Rani,” he whispered, his hot breath on my neck. His hands roamed under the pallu, squeezing my chest through the blouse. I tried to push away, but two other seniors held my arms. “Please, senior… no…” I begged, but they just laughed.
Rohan kissed me hard, smearing my lipstick, while his fingers tugged the saree pleats loose. The fabric pooled around my waist. Vikram came behind me, yanking the blouse hooks open. My “breasts” spilled out as they bent me over the table. Rohan entered me first from behind, rough and without mercy, grunting as he fucked me deep while calling me his hostel slut. The anklets jingled with every thrust. I gasped and moaned involuntarily, the mix of pain, fear, and unwanted pleasure making my head spin.
One by one, they took turns. Vikram made me ride him while still in the saree, pallu over my shoulder like a proper Indian wife, his hands gripping my hips. Another senior forced me to my knees, making me suck him while the others watched and stroked themselves. They came on my face, on the blouse, inside me—marking their “freshie rani.” The whole night blurred into a haze of sweat, silk, and semen. They kept me dressed like that till morning, taking photos “for memories” and warning me not to tell anyone.
By the end, I was exhausted, sore, and covered in their marks, yet strangely broken in. The saree was ruined, but the ragging had bonded me to them in the darkest way possible. From then on, whenever they called for “Rani,” I knew what to wear… and what to expect.

The ragging session had been going on for three days straight in the boys’ hostel of our engineering college in Pune. As a shy first-year from a small town in Kerala, I was an easy target. The seniors—mostly final-year guys from the mechanical and CS branches—had already made me dance like a monkey, chug raw eggs, and sing film songs in my underwear. But tonight, they wanted something “special.”
“Arre, this fresher looks too pretty for a boy,” said Rohan, the tall, muscular head of the ragging gang, with a wicked grin. His friends laughed, already tipsy on cheap whiskey. They dragged me to the common room on the top floor, doors locked, curtains drawn. Someone brought out a big bag.
“Time to make you our college rani,” another senior, Vikram, chuckled as they stripped me completely naked. I was trembling, too scared to protest much. They shaved my body smooth with cold razors, powdered me, and started dressing me up.
First came the black lace panties that barely contained me. Then a padded bra. They wrapped a deep red silk saree around my waist with expert hands—petticoat tight, blouse low-cut and backless, showing off my smooth back. One of them even applied makeup: dark kohl, red lipstick, bindi, and long fake earrings. My short hair was covered with a matching dupatta pinned like a woman’s hair. When they made me look in the mirror, I barely recognized myself—a curvy, blushing “girl” in a traditional saree, pallu draped seductively over one shoulder.
“Look at her, bhai! Perfect randi material,” Rohan laughed, slapping my padded ass. They forced bangles on my wrists and anklets on my feet. The tinkling sound made me feel utterly humiliated and strangely vulnerable.
The “game” started. They made me serve them drinks, walking in the saree, hips swaying because of the petticoat. Every time I stumbled, they pinched my waist or thighs. Then Rohan pulled me onto his lap.
“Time for the real ragging, Rani,” he whispered, his hot breath on my neck. His hands roamed under the pallu, squeezing my chest through the blouse. I tried to push away, but two other seniors held my arms. “Please, senior… no…” I begged, but they just laughed.
Rohan kissed me hard, smearing my lipstick, while his fingers tugged the saree pleats loose. The fabric pooled around my waist. Vikram came behind me, yanking the blouse hooks open. My “breasts” spilled out as they bent me over the table. Rohan entered me first from behind, rough and without mercy, grunting as he fucked me deep while calling me his hostel slut. The anklets jingled with every thrust. I gasped and moaned involuntarily, the mix of pain, fear, and unwanted pleasure making my head spin.
One by one, they took turns. Vikram made me ride him while still in the saree, pallu over my shoulder like a proper Indian wife, his hands gripping my hips. Another senior forced me to my knees, making me suck him while the others watched and stroked themselves. They came on my face, on the blouse, inside me—marking their “freshie rani.” The whole night blurred into a haze of sweat, silk, and semen. They kept me dressed like that till morning, taking photos “for memories” and warning me not to tell anyone.
By the end, I was exhausted, sore, and covered in their marks, yet strangely broken in. The saree was ruined, but the ragging had bonded me to them in the darkest way possible. From then on, whenever they called for “Rani,” I knew what to wear… and what to expect.

After our marriage, Rohan became even more possessive and obsessive with his “Rani.” He no longer wanted me just dressed up — he wanted the real thing. One night, while I was riding him slowly in a sheer black saree, my padded breasts bouncing with every thrust, he cupped them and growled against my neck, “These are fake. I want to feel real tits when I fuck my wife.”
That was the beginning.
He arranged everything. A discreet doctor in Bangalore, hormone therapy, and strict instructions on dosage. I started estrogen and anti-androgens under the table. At first it was just subtle changes — softer skin, less body hair, slight swelling under my nipples. But within six months, my chest had grown sensitive and tender. By the end of the first year, I had real, perky C-cup breasts that filled my blouses naturally. No more padding. They bounced, jiggled, and ached deliciously when Rohan played with them.
The first time he saw me fully naked after the growth spurt, his eyes darkened with raw hunger. He pushed me against the mirror, yanked my pallu down, and tore open the hooks of my maroon blouse. My bare breasts spilled out — soft, round, with dark sensitive nipples already hard. He groaned like an animal, sucking and biting them while his fingers found my hole under the saree.
“Fuck… these are mine now,” he muttered, squeezing them hard as he bent me over and took me from behind. My new breasts swung heavily with every powerful thrust, the sensation completely different — electric pleasure shooting through my chest straight to my cock, which was now smaller and more sensitive from the hormones. I came hands-free that night, moaning like a bride on her suhaag raat while he filled me up.
Our sex life became even more intense. Rohan loved dressing me in tight, low-cut blouses that showed deep cleavage. He’d make me wear sarees without a bra sometimes, so my nipples would poke through the thin fabric while I served him dinner. At night he was insatiable — sucking my tits till they were red and marked, fucking me in every position while watching them bounce. He especially loved tit-fucking me now, sliding his thick cock between my soft breasts while I looked up at him with kohl-lined eyes and freshly applied lipstick.
I grew my hair longer too, and started laser treatment for smoother skin. My body became curvier — wider hips, fuller ass, and those beautiful breasts that were now undeniably real. When we visited his family during festivals, I attended as the perfect traditional wife in heavy silk sarees, my cleavage modestly covered but still noticeable to anyone who looked closely. Only Rohan knew what those breasts looked like when the blouse came off — swollen, sensitive, and leaking a little milk after he started me on special pills just for his kink.
Now, years into our marriage, I’m his complete Rani. Every morning I wake up with his hand possessively cupping one of my breasts. And every night he reminds me how it all started — from that scared crossdressed fresher in a red saree to his real-breasted, fully feminized wife who moans his name while getting fucked senseless.
He still calls me to the bedroom with that same wicked senior voice: “Rani… saree pehen ke aa jaa.”
And I always obey, my real breasts already tingling in anticipation.

The first office party after our marriage was a big annual event at Rohan’s IT company in Bangalore — a lavish rooftop gathering at a 5-star hotel with open bar, live music, and almost the entire team plus spouses. Rohan had been excited for weeks. “This time my Rani is coming as my real wife,” he told me while fucking me the night before, his hands roughly kneading my full C-cup breasts. “And you’re going to look like the hottest woman there.”
I spent the whole day preparing. I chose a deep emerald green chiffon saree with a thin gold border — the kind that clung to every curve and turned slightly transparent under bright lights. The matching low-cut blouse was backless, with just a few hooks and a deep plunging neckline that put my real cleavage on full display. No bra. My breasts were now sensitive enough that even the soft fabric made my nipples harden. I did my makeup dramatically: winged kohl, bold red lipstick, a big bindi, and long wavy hair extensions that fell over one shoulder. Gold jhumkas, bangles, and a thin mangalsutra completed the look of a newlywed traditional wife.
Rohan couldn’t keep his hands off me in the car. He kept sliding his palm under my pallu, pinching my nipples until I was squirming and leaking a little from the special pills he made me take.
At the party, heads turned the moment we entered. Rohan walked tall, his arm possessively around my waist, introducing me as “Aparna, my wife.” His colleagues — mostly men in their late 20s and 30s — stared openly at my chest and the way the saree hugged my widened hips. A few of the senior guys who had been Rohan’s batchmates gave knowing smirks, as if they suspected something.
Rohan made me drink wine even though I was nervous. After a couple of glasses, I was glowing. He pulled me to the dance floor for a slow couple song. While everyone watched, he pressed me close, his hard bulge rubbing against me through the thin saree. His hand boldly cupped my ass, fingers digging into the flesh while he whispered, “They all want to fuck you, jaanu. But you’re mine.”
Later, when the party got louder and people were drunk, Rohan dragged me to a dimly lit corner near the pool. He pushed me against a pillar, yanking my pallu down so my breasts nearly spilled out. “These tits are killing me all night,” he growled, bending to suck hard on one nipple right there, risking anyone seeing. I moaned softly, biting my lip, my hands in his hair.
One of his close teammates, Arjun, walked by and froze for a second, catching a glimpse of my exposed breast before Rohan casually covered me. Instead of getting angry, Rohan smirked and said, “Want a better look later?” Arjun laughed nervously but didn’t say no.
The real fun started after midnight when many had left. Rohan took me to one of the reserved poolside cabanas. He made me kneel on the cushions in my saree, pallu completely off, blouse hooks open. My heavy breasts hung free as I sucked him deep, red lipstick smearing on his cock while the distant music played. Then he bent me over, hiked up the saree and petticoat, and fucked me hard from behind, my tits swinging and slapping with every thrust. I had to bite the pallu to muffle my moans.
Halfway through, Arjun appeared at the entrance. Rohan didn’t stop. “Watch how my wife takes it,” he said proudly, pounding me deeper. Arjun stroked himself while staring at my bouncing breasts and flushed face. Rohan finally came inside me with a groan, then made me turn around and show Arjun my leaking, well-fucked pussy and cum-covered tits.
That night set the tone for our married life in Bangalore. From then on, every office party became an opportunity for Rohan to show off his perfectly feminized, big-breasted wife — dressed in the sexiest sarees, used in corners and cabanas, and occasionally shared with his most trusted friends.
When we got home at dawn, he fucked me again in the same ruined emerald saree, whispering how proud he was of his Rani.
“Next party, maybe I’ll let them touch these real tits,” he said, squeezing them possessively.
I shivered, already wet at the thought.