College bullies

From our side of the college, Abhilash and Vamsi had already become the reason most of us stopped talking about our families. Abhilash was the taller one, lean under the same black hoodie he wore every day, the thin scar on his eyebrow catching light when he turned his head. He spoke quietly, almost friendly, right up until he decided a girl belonged to them. Vamsi stood broader, shorter hair, the one who rarely raised his voice. When he smiled it was small and finished. By second year the pattern was clear. They took girls from bus stops, from practice rooms, from empty labs. They had already done it to a senior’s girlfriend and to Ravi’s younger sister after the annual day. Ravi had stood in the parking lot the next morning with his hands open, asking them to stop. Abhilash had only said she cried better than the others. A few weeks later Vamsi’s bike was seen outside the flat where one batchmate’s mother lived alone. The batchmate disappeared from class for days. Nobody asked questions after that. The two of them fucked whoever they chose—classmates, sisters, mothers—and the rest of the college learned to keep their eyes on the floor.

Manogna was still sitting in the front row then, the topper with neat notes and perfect attendance. She corrected a lecturer once and looked sorry about it. Most of us had a quiet liking for her. She wore simple clothes, hair tied, and left on time. That was supposed to be enough. It wasn’t. After Abhilash failed one internal, they decided she had made the curve look bad. They took her from the evening bus stop in Abhilash’s car. One of us followed on a bike and parked under the tree outside the highway hotel. He started recording from the open window of the ground-floor room.

Inside they already had her on the bed. Abhilash’s voice came first, low. “Topper girl. Thought the marks would save you?” Manogna was crying before they touched her clothes. She kept repeating that she would delete her notes, fail the next test, do anything else. Vamsi told her to shut up and strip. When her hands shook too much he slapped her across the face, the sound sharp. She pulled the kurta over her head. They tore the rest. Abhilash pushed her straight to her knees on the floor. “Open your mouth.” She shook her head, tears running, saying please don’t, please Abhilash, my father will come. He slapped her again, harder, then forced his cock between her lips. She gagged at once. He held the back of her head and moved her on him in short, steady strokes while she cried around the length, spit sliding down her chin onto her chest. Every time she tried to pull back he pushed deeper until her nose touched him. “Suck it right or I hit you again.” She tried. The wet choking mixed with her muffled begging the whole time.

Vamsi pulled her up by the hair and bent her over the edge of the bed, face pressed into the sheet. He spat once, lined up, and shoved in hard from behind. She screamed into the mattress. He slapped her ass, then reached forward and slapped her face while he fucked her in long strokes that rocked the bed against the wall. “Stop crying or I go slower and longer.” She didn’t stop. Her voice broke on every thrust—please it hurts, please stop, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do whatever you want. Abhilash stood beside them filming her face on his phone, close enough that the crying filled the audio. “Look here. Tell the camera you like it.” She only sobbed harder, shoulders shaking, hands clawing at the sheet. They switched without pulling out fully. Abhilash took her the same way, one hand gripping the back of her neck just tight, the other still recording. She begged through all of it, voice getting thinner, saying please no more, please finish, I’ll thank you, just stop. They ignored every word. Vamsi slapped her thighs red whenever she tried to crawl forward. Both of them used her mouth again in between, making her choke and cry while the other filmed, until they finished across her back and in her hair. The recording caught the small wrecked sounds after, her still whispering please let me go while they told her to clean it and say thank you on camera.

They were not done. Two days later they took Pooja. She was the dancer who performed at every fest, long hair, the one half the boys watched from the back. Abhilash had messaged her about a college video project at the same hotel. She went. The same friend recorded from outside again.

She fought more than Manogna. Vamsi backhanded her across the mouth the moment she tried to leave. Blood on her lip. They made her stand and do a few steps while they filmed and laughed. Then Abhilash pushed her to her knees. She refused to open. He slapped her three times, fast and open-handed, until her mouth gave. He fucked her throat while she gagged and cried, tears mixing with spit, both hands pushing at his hips. Vamsi bent her over the bed next and drove in without waiting. She screamed. He slapped her ass and then her face in turns, telling her to arch and take every stroke. “Please stop, please, it hurts so much, I’ll dance anything, just not this.” Abhilash kept the phone on her face the entire time, zooming on the crying and the way her mouth stayed open between sobs. They switched again and again—mouth, then from behind, then mouth—slapping whenever the begging got too loud, holding her hips so she could not crawl away. She cried through all of it, voice cracking on please please no more, until both of them finished on her and made her look at the camera and say thank you. The friend said her sounds at the end were almost the same as Manogna’s, small and broken.

Both videos stayed on Abhilash’s phone. He played short pieces in the canteen the next afternoon, volume low, just the begging and the slaps. Nobody spoke. Manogna and Pooja both stopped coming. Abhilash and Vamsi sat in the last row sharing a packet of biscuits like any other day.

That evening Abhilash looked at me across the parking lot. My sister is in first year. She still walks to the gate alone some days. My mother brings tiffin when I forget and waits near the car. He raised two fingers in that small wave he uses. Vamsi was beside him, phone out, scrolling. Abhilash said, quiet enough that only I heard, “Your sister has the same timing as the topper used to. And your mother parks under the same tree on Sundays.” He didn’t smile. Vamsi did, just a little. They already had the recordings of Manogna and Pooja. The rest of us already knew what the next names on the list sounded like when they begged. I started walking both of them all the way to the car after that, checking the mirrors, listening for the bike that had not come yet.