جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 50

I pushed the door open with one shoulder, still feeling the slow warm trickle of Cole’s cum sliding down the inside of my thighs, and stopped when I saw him. Marcus was already in the room. He stood near the window, arms folded, looking out at the city lights. When the door clicked shut he turned. For a moment neither of us spoke I must have looked exactly as spent as I felt—hair damp at the temples, cheeks flushed, the dark patch on my shorts impossible to hide. “You look exhausted,” he said quietly. “Come here.” I didn’t argue. My legs were shaky and the ache between them had settled into a deep, constant throb. He guided me toward the massage table he had already set up in the middle of the room, the same one from the night before. A clean sheet was draped over it. Soft music played from the small speaker on the nightstand. “I figured you might need this after whatever you put yourself through today,” he said again. “Lie down. On your stomach.” I pulled the tank

The two new men stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind them. One I recognized from the gym—the quiet one who had spotted for me on the bench press—while the other was a stranger, taller, broader across the shoulders, with the same solid build the rest of them shared. They undressed without ceremony, eyes already on the mess between my legs and the five men still surrounding the bed.Marcus never left my side. He kept one hand on my hip, steadying me while the new arrivals took their places. Cole moved back to my mouth. Derek and the scarred man took my hands again. The gym spotter climbed onto the mattress between my thighs and pushed into me in one long, continuous stroke, sinking deep through the thick combination of cum already leaking out of me. The stranger waited his turn at my side, stroking himself slowly while he watched.I was past counting. My body had stopped distinguishing one cock from the next; there was only the stretch, the wet sound of it, the heat o

After a few minutes of sucking him deep and wet, spit running down his shaft and dripping onto his balls, he looked down at me with dark eyes. “You want to ride this thick cock, baby?” I did not bother answering with words. I simply swung one leg over his lap, reached between us, and pressed the fat swollen head of his nine-inch cock right against my already slick entrance. I started lowering myself slowly, letting that broad tip force my tight hole open inch by filthy inch. The stretch burned so good I had to bite my lip. His cock was thicker than most of the ones that had already used me that morning and it pushed my little hole wider than it had been in a long time. I kept sinking down, determined to take every last inch, until my ass finally rested hard against his thighs and I could feel the head of him lodged deep in my guts. It felt filthy and perfect. I started grinding my hips in slow dirty circles, rolling forward and back so every ridge and vein dragged against my

After he left that Sunday evening I stood alone in the quiet house and felt the weight of everything that had just happened settle over me. The weekend with the young man had been filthy and fun and exhausting, but once the door closed behind him something shifted inside me.Being a cumslut was good, yet yet I felt fake. Nothing about me was real and tha hurts. I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. Then I opened every dresser drawer. Ninety percent of what I owned was already women’s clothes, women’s shoes, women’s lingerie. The few remaining male shirts and pants and sneakers looked like they belonged to a stranger.I pulled the wig off and let my real hair fall around my shoulders. It was thick and shoulder-length. I looked at my full set of square-tip acrylic nails, still perfect and dark cherry red. I looked at my painted toes, the thin, waxed, arched eyebrows that framed my face. Everything about me already pointed one direction.I went to the kitchen, grabbed a r

I first met Ava on a wet Thursday night. I had pulled three drunk bastards off her in a side street near the university, the kind of moment that burns itself into memory. She was fighting and swearing even while they had her pinned against the wall with their hands already under her skirt. I had stepped in, landed a couple of clean punches, and sent them running. She shook so badly she could barely stand. I remembered her torn skirt and ruined makeups. I took her to a late-night café, bought her tea, and sat with her until the trembling stopped. According to her, she was in her final year and living in halls, rape attempts were rampant. When I walked her back to her building she stopped me at the door and looked up with those wide eyes. She asked if she could see me again, not as a thank-you, but because she wanted to. I had agreed.