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.