You're squeezed between two sweating, grinning men on the overcrowded afternoon bus, your tiny dress riding up as hands slip under the flimsy fabric—one pinching your nipple through your bra while the other slides between your thighs—and you let out that breathy little gasp they love, the one that sounds like protest but makes them pull you closer. "Please," you whisper unconvincingly into the humid air, arching just enough to make your ass press against the erection digging into your back, "stop..." but your thighs part wider on their own, and the man beside you chuckles into your hair, his fingers already hooking under your panties.

"Shhh, beti," rasps the older one—smelling of paan and cheap whiskey—as his calloused thumb rubs slow circles over your clit through the damp silk, "you dressed like this to show uncle your goods, na?" His friend bites your earlobe hard enough to make you whimper, his free hand groping your tits roughly. "Look at her—such a soft little randi, acting shy when she’s leaking through her clothes."