The bass thumped through Mariam’s chest, a foreign, violating rhythm. Her silk hijab felt like a cage now, not a shield. Her friend Layla had lied—this wasn't a quiet dinner party. It was a den of sweat, smoke, and hungry eyes.

A sweaty glass of sangria was pushed into her hand. "Loosen up, sister!" a leering voice slurred. She sipped, the taste too sweet, too sharp. The room began to swim, edges blurring. Layla's grinning face doubled, then vanished. Mariam's limbs turned to lead.

Hands—rough, anonymous—guided her stumbling form onto a low stage. A spotlight hit her. Whistles and catcalls erupted. "Let's see what's under the uniform, baby!" someone shouted.

Trembling, she felt fingers at the pin of her hijab. It slipped away, her dark hair tumbling down. A collective groan of approval. More hands found the buttons of her modest dress. They popped open, one by one, the sound obscenely loud. Cool air hit her skin as the fabric was peeled from her shoulders, revealing her simple bra. Fingers hooked under the straps, yanking them down. Her tits spilled out—full, heavy mounds with dark, stiffening nipples. The crowd roared.

She was laid back on a sticky leather couch. Her dress was ripped from her hips. Her plain cotton panties were the last barrier. A thick finger traced the dampening fabric over her pussy. "Already wet for us, you pious slut?" a man breathed.

The panties were torn away. Calloused thumbs spread her