𝐌i𝐫a’s C𝐨p C𝐚p𝐞r: 𝐀 𝐃i𝐫t𝐲 𝐒e𝐭u𝐩

The morning sun sliced through the grimy blinds of my fifth-floor walk-up, painting streaks of gold across my pale ivory skin. I groaned, rolling outta bed, my dark wavy hair a tangled mess spilling past my shoulders, sticking to my sweaty neck from a restless night. My tiny apartment smelled of stale coffee and the curry wafting from Mrs. Patel’s place downstairs, the city’s hum already seeping through the cracked window—honking cabs, shouting vendors, the distant wail of a siren. My brown eyes, framed by long lashes, squinted at the clock: 8:47 AM. Too fuckin’ early for this shit. I’m Mira, 18, a trans woman who’s been living as myself for two years, and every day in this city was a fight to keep my head above water. At 5’6” and 125 pounds, I was all sharp edges and curves, my perky A-cup tits barely filling my bra, my plump ass a magnet for trouble, and my tiny 2-inch cock and tight balls tucked snug in my thong, a secret I wielded like a weapon.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, Mr. Salerno’s name flashing like a death knell. I grabbed it, my heart-shaped face tensing, high cheekbones catching the light as I answered, my full, pouty lips still dry from sleep. “Yeah, what now?” I rasped, voice low, my long legs swinging outta bed, shapely thighs flexing.

“Ey, Mira, I need ya to meet Frankie at the old warehouse on 42nd,” Salerno barked, his Italian accent thick, each word a jab. “He’s got a job for ya. Don’t fuck this up, eh? You still owe me for Tony—wife and kid ain’t cheap to keep fed.” The line cut, leaving my heart slamming against my ribs, my perky tits heaving under my tank top. Salerno had me on a leash since that mall shootout, and every job dragged me deeper into his world. I wasn’t just some street hustler anymore—I was his fuckin’ pawn, and I hated it.

I stood, stretching, my pale skin prickling in the cool air, my wavy hair swinging as I moved to the mirror. My brown eyes stared back, sharp and tired, my high cheekbones flushed with frustration. I dressed quick, slipping into a white crop top that clung to my small tits, the hem teasing my flat stomach, and a frayed denim mini skirt that hugged my plump ass, barely covering my shapely thighs. Knee-high brown boots wrapped my long legs, giving me three extra inches of strut, and I slung a small brown purse over my shoulder, my wavy hair loose and wild, framing my heart-shaped face. I grabbed a green smoothie from the fridge—last night’s bodega run—and headed out, my boots thudding down the creaky stairs, my tiny cock twitching nervously in my thong, my tight balls aching with the weight of Salerno’s demands.

The city was alive, a chaotic beast of steel and noise. My silver BMW E21 waited on the curb, a scratched-up beauty I’d fought to keep, its M20 engine purring as I slid behind the wheel, my plump ass sinking into the leather, my long legs working the pedals. I drove to 42nd, weaving through traffic—cabbies flipping me off, a street preacher shouting about salvation, the air thick with exhaust and fried dough from a nearby cart. The warehouse district was a forgotten corner of the city, all crumbling brick and rusted chain-link, the kind of place where deals went down and bodies got dumped. I parked, my brown eyes scanning, my pouty lips sipping the smoothie, the straw teasing my full lips as I stepped out, my mini skirt riding up, my shapely thighs catching the morning light.

Frankie leaned against his black Cadillac, late 20s, Italian, lean but wiry, with slick black hair and sharp green eyes that cut through me like a blade. His leather jacket hung open, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a faint scar on his cheek catching the sun. He was Salerno’s errand boy, loyal but desperate, and I could see the stress in his hunched shoulders. “Ey, Mira, ‘bout fuckin’ time, eh?” he growled, his accent thick, tossing the cig to the ground, grinding it under his boot. “We got a problem, aight? Officer fuckin’ Daniels—he’s been a pain in our ass for months. Bustin’ our guys on bullshit charges—expired tags, loiterin’, whatever he can pin. Last week, he roughed up one of our runners, got ‘im to snitch on a drop. Boss wants dirt on ‘im, somethin’ to make ‘im back off.”

I leaned against my E21, crossing my long legs, my mini skirt teasing my plump ass, my perky tits straining my crop top. My brown eyes narrowed, long lashes steady as I sipped my smoothie, my pouty lips wrapping the straw. “So, what, you want me to play fuckin’ spy? I ain’t a snitch, Frankie. I flip cars, not lives.” My high cheekbones flushed, my pale skin prickling with the weight of his stare, my wavy hair catching the breeze.

He smirked, his green eyes raking over my shapely thighs, lingering on my tits. “You owe us, sweetheart. Daniels lives in a brownstone on 19th. He’s on duty, wife and kids are out—probably at school or some shit. You sneak in, snoop ‘round, find somethin’ juicy—drugs, payoffs, fuckin’ kiddie porn, I don’t care. I keep watch.” He tossed me a pair of EarPods, the white plastic gleaming. “We stay connected, capisce? You fuck this up, boss’ll have both our heads.”

I uncrossed my legs, stepping closer, my boots clicking on the cracked pavement, my plump ass swaying. “And if I get caught, Frankie? I ain’t takin’ a rap for your ass. Salerno’s got me by the balls already.” My voice was sharp, my brown eyes burning, my heart-shaped face hard.

He laughed, low and rough, his accent thicker with frustration. “You won’t, ‘cause you’re fuckin’ good at this sneaky shit, eh? I heard how you handled that mall job—cool as ice, poppin’ heads like it’s nothin’. But if you don’t do this, boss’ll skin me alive—and you’re next, doll. So move your pretty little ass, aight?” His green eyes softened, just a flicker, but I saw the fear in them. Frankie was in deep, same as me.

I sighed, my pouty lips pursing, my long lashes fluttering as I popped the EarPods in. “Fine, you fuckin’ prick,” I snapped, tossing my empty smoothie cup into a nearby bin, the plastic clattering. “But if this goes south, I’m blamin’ your ass.” We climbed into his Cadillac, leaving my E21 behind—I’d grab it later, assuming I didn’t end up in cuffs or a ditch. The drive to 19th was tense, Frankie’s knuckles white on the wheel, his accent thick as he ranted about Daniels. “Fuckin’ pig’s been takin’ payoffs from the Irish crew, I know it—turnin’ a blind eye to their shit while fuckin’ with us. Last month, he planted weed on one of our guys, got ‘im locked up for six months. We need somethin’ to shut ‘im down, Mira.”

The Cadillac smelled of cigarettes and leather, the city blurring past—neon signs for pawn shops, a bodega with a line out the door, a homeless guy pissing against a wall. My plump ass sank into the seat, my long legs crossed, my tiny cock twitching nervously in my thong, my tight balls aching with the weight of this job. My wavy hair stuck to my sweaty neck, my pale skin prickling as we pulled onto 19th, a quiet residential street lined with brownstones, the kind of place where cops and accountants pretended to live the American dream.

Daniels’ brownstone was a neat two-story, red brick with white trim, a kid’s bike on the stoop, a basketball hoop over the garage. Frankie parked a block away, his green eyes scanning the street, his voice low through the EarPods. “Aight, he’s on patrol, but we gotta be quick. Window on the right—ground floor. Move, eh?” I slipped out, my boots silent on the pavement, my mini skirt flapping, my perky tits bouncing as I crept to the window. It was unlocked, and I pried it open, hoisting myself in, my shapely thighs flexing, my long legs dangling before I dropped inside, my wavy hair swinging, my brown eyes sharp.

The house smelled of coffee and laundry detergent, a faint hint of lavender from an air freshener. Family photos lined the walls—Daniels, mid-30s, white, with short brown hair and blue eyes, smiling with a blonde wife and two kids, a boy and girl, maybe 8 and 10. The boy had his dad’s eyes, the girl his wife’s smile. “Looks like a fuckin’ family man, Frankie,” I whispered into the EarPods, my voice low, my heart pounding. “Kids, wife, the whole goddamn package.” The living room was tidy—beige couch, glass coffee table, a flat-screen TV on a stand, a kid’s drawing of a dog pinned to the fridge in the adjacent kitchen. Stairs led up, a hallway to the back.

“Check the bedroom, eh? Might be somethin’ there—drugs, cash, somethin’,” Frankie hissed, his accent tight with desperation. I crept upstairs, my boots soft on the carpet, my plump ass swaying, my perky tits bouncing with each step. The master bedroom was plain—king bed with a blue comforter, dresser, nightstands with a lamp and a romance novel. I rifled through the dresser drawers, my heart pounding, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck, my pale skin flushed. Nothing—no drugs, no shady receipts, just socks, boxers, and a couple of ties. But in the top drawer, I found a wallet—black leather, stuffed with $200 in cash, credit cards, a gym membership, and a business card for a strip club called “Velvet Kiss.” I smirked, my pouty lips curling, my brown eyes glinting. “Yo, Frankie, I got his wallet,” I whispered, my voice low. “Cash, cards, a strip club card—but no real dirt. Guy’s clean as a fuckin’ priest.”

Frankie cursed, his voice cracking through the EarPods. “Fuck, Mira, we need somethin’! Boss’ll have my fuckin’ balls if we don’t get dirt on this pig! Look harder, eh?!” I could hear his panic, his accent thicker, his breathing ragged. I paced the bedroom, my long legs striding, my mini skirt teasing my shapely thighs, my high cheekbones flushed with frustration. No dirt meant Frankie was fucked—and so was I, with Salerno breathing down my neck. My mind raced, my heart-shaped face tensing, my brown eyes darting. If we couldn’t find dirt, we’d have to make some. Daniels would be back for his wallet, probably soon—he’d need his cards, his ID. A plan clicked into place, dangerous but brilliant, and I grinned, my pouty lips curling with a wicked edge.

“I got an idea, Frankie,” I whispered, my voice steady, my pale skin tingling with adrenaline. “Just wait and fuckin’ watch.”

I clutched Daniels’ wallet, my pale ivory skin tingling with the thrill of the plan brewing in my head, my brown eyes glinting with a mix of fear and excitement. I crept back downstairs, my knee-high brown boots silent on the carpet, my denim mini skirt teasing my shapely thighs, my white crop top clinging to my perky A-cup tits. My long, toned legs moved fast, my plump ass swaying, my wavy hair bouncing past my shoulders as I reached the ground-floor window I’d entered through. I unlocked it fully, leaving it cracked just enough for Frankie to slip in later, and slid out, my long legs dangling, my tiny cock twitching in my thong, my tight balls aching with adrenaline. I landed on the pavement, my boots clicking softly, my high cheekbones flushed, my heart-shaped face set with determination.

I hustled back to Frankie’s Cadillac, parked a block away, and tossed the wallet onto the dash, my pouty lips curling into a smirk. Frankie’s green eyes nearly popped outta his skull, his lean frame tensing, his slick black hair gleaming in the sunlight. “What the fuck, Mira?!” he barked, his accent thick with panic, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned forward. “You stole his fuckin’ wallet? You tryin’ to get us pinched or what, eh?!”

I slid into the passenger seat, my plump ass sinking into the leather, my long legs crossing, my mini skirt riding up to flash my thighs. “Chill, Frankie, you impatient fuck,” I said, my voice low, my brown eyes steady. “Wait and watch. This pig’s gonna come runnin’ for his wallet—cards, ID, cash, he can’t work without it. We’ll use that.” My wavy hair stuck to my sweaty neck, my pale skin prickling as I leaned back, my perky tits straining my crop top.

Frankie’s green eyes narrowed, but he stayed quiet, his fingers tapping the wheel, his accent thick with nerves. “You better know what you’re doin’, doll. Boss’ll have my fuckin’ hide if this goes south.” I smirked, my pouty lips glistening, my high cheekbones glowing. Fifteen minutes later, right on cue, a patrol car rolled up, and Officer Daniels stepped out—mid-30s, white, 6’1”, broad-shouldered, with short brown hair, blue eyes, and a clean-shaven jaw, his uniform crisp, badge gleaming. He looked stressed, his blue eyes scanning the stoop as he jogged to the door, keys jangling.

I turned to Frankie, my heart pounding, my pale skin tingling. “Here’s the play,” I said, my voice steady, my brown eyes burning. “I go in, ring the bell, say I found his wallet on the street, came to return it. He’ll be grateful, let me in. I flirt, get ‘im to fuck me. You sneak to the window I left unlocked, snap photos of us fuckin’. We use ‘em to blackmail his ass—either he stops fuckin’ with you, or his career and marriage are fuckin’ toast. Got it?”

Frankie’s jaw dropped, his green eyes wide, but a slow grin spread across his face, his accent softening with awe. “Fuckin’ genius, Mira. But shit, you’re a goddamn slut, eh? You sure you can pull this off?” I laughed, my wavy hair swinging, my long legs stepping out of the car, my plump ass swaying as I grabbed the wallet. “Takes one to know one, Frankie,” I teased, my heart-shaped face lighting up. “Get that camera ready, you prick.”

I strutted to the brownstone, my boots clicking on on the pavement, my mini skirt teasing my shapely thighs, my perky tits bouncing with each step. My pale skin glowed in the morning light, my tiny cock twitching in my thong, my tight balls aching with anticipation. I rang the bell, my long lashes fluttering, my brown eyes soft, my pouty lips curling into a sweet smile. Daniels opened the door, his blue eyes tired but lighting up when he saw me—and the wallet in my hand. “Hey, uh, is this yours?” I asked, my voice soft, my heart-shaped face tilted, my wavy hair framing my high cheekbones. “Found it on the street a block over, figured I’d bring it back.”

His broad shoulders relaxed, his blue eyes crinkling with relief, a grin breaking across his clean-shaven face. “Holy shit, yeah, that’s mine!” he said, his voice deep, a faint edge to his cop lingo. “Thank you—God, I’ve been tearin’ the house apart lookin’ for it. You’re a lifesaver, kid. Come in, lemme get you a cold drink or somethin’.” He stepped aside, his uniform tight across his chest, his badge catching the light as I stepped in, my long legs graceful, my plump ass swaying, my brown eyes scanning the room.

The living room was the same as before—beige couch, glass coffee table, kid’s drawing on the fridge—but now it felt alive, the air thick with tension. Daniels gestured to the couch, his blue eyes lingering on my shapely thighs, my perky tits, my pale skin. “Sit, sit,” he said, heading to the kitchen. “I got soda, water—hell, I might have a beer if you’re old enough.” He chuckled, his voice warm but edged with something hungrier as he glanced back, his gaze catching my pouty lips.

I sat, crossing my long legs, my mini skirt riding up, my wavy hair falling over my shoulders. “Soda’s fine,” I said, my voice sweet, my brown eyes soft. “And I’m 18, so no beer for me, officer.” I giggled, my high cheekbones flushing, playing the innocent card hard. He returned with a Coke, handing it to me, his fingers brushing mine, his blue eyes locked on my heart-shaped face as he sat across from me on an armchair, his broad frame filling the space.

“Name’s Mike Daniels,” he said, leaning back, his uniform creaking. “You’re a real good kid, y’know that? Not many would bother returnin’ a wallet. What’s your name, sweetheart?” His voice was casual, but his eyes betrayed him, raking over my perky tits, my shapely thighs, my pale skin like he was starving.

“Mira,” I said, sipping the soda, my pouty lips wrapping the can, my long lashes fluttering. “Just doin’ the right thing, y’know? You’re a cop—figured you’d need this for work.” I leaned forward, my crop top teasing my flat stomach, my brown eyes locked on his, my voice dropping. “Must be tough, protectin’ the city, dealin’ with all kinds of bad guys.”

He chuckled, his blue eyes darkening, his broad shoulders shifting. “Yeah, it’s a grind. But seein’ a pretty thing like you makes it worth it.” His tone shifted, flirty now, his cop lingo slipping as he leaned closer. “You live ‘round here, Mira? Got a boyfriend or somethin’?” His gaze lingered on my wavy hair, my high cheekbones, my full lips, and I knew I had him.

I smiled, my heart pounding, my tiny cock twitching in my thong. “Nah, no boyfriend,” I purred, uncrossing my legs, letting my mini skirt ride up higher, my shapely thighs on full display. “I like to keep things… exciting. What about you? Got a wife to keep you warm, or you just out here savin’ damsels like me?” My voice was a tease, my brown eyes daring him, my pale skin flushing with the game.

His grin faltered, but his eyes burned, his hands flexing on his knees. “Got a wife, two kids,” he admitted, his voice low, his blue eyes flicking to a family photo on the wall. “But fuck, Mira, you’re somethin’ else. I shouldn’t even be thinkin’ this, but you’re fuckin’ irresistible.” He leaned closer, his breath hot, his uniform tight across his chest. “You’re flirtin’ with me, ain’t ya? Don’t play games, sweetheart—I’m a cop, I can read people.”

I bit my lip, my pouty lips glistening, my long lashes fluttering. “Maybe I am,” I whispered, standing, my long legs stretching, my plump ass swaying as I stepped closer, my boots clicking on the hardwood. “But I got a little secret, Mike. I’m trans—got a tiny cock under this skirt. Still wanna play, or you gonna run back to your wife?” My brown eyes burned into his, my heart-shaped face tilted, my pale skin tingling with the risk.

His blue eyes widened, his broad frame tensing, but a slow, hungry grin spread across his face, his hand adjusting his pants. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he growled, standing, towering over me, his 6’1” frame intimidating. “Wife don’t need to know shit. You’re a dirty little thing, ain’t ya? I can work with that.” His voice was rough, his cop lingo gone, replaced by raw desire as he stepped closer, his hands twitching.

I smirked, my high cheekbones flushing, my wavy hair swinging. “I’ve always had a fantasy, Mike,” I purred, my voice low, my brown eyes locked on his. “Gettin’ raped by a cop—rough, no mercy. You can fuck me, but you gotta make it hurt, make me fight you. Promise me that, and I’m yours.” My pale skin prickled, my tiny cock throbbing, my tight balls aching as I laid the bait, my rape fantasy fueling the fire.

Daniels’ blue eyes darkened, his breath hitching, his broad shoulders tensing. “Fuck, you’re serious,” he muttered, his voice thick, his hands flexing. “Every guy’s thought about it—takin’ a girl hard, makin’ her beg. And you’re fuckin’ askin’ for it? Shit, Mira, you’re too good to be true.” Without another word, he grabbed me, his hands rough on my arms, yanking me against his chest, his uniform scratching my pale skin.

I struggled, my long legs kicking, my boots scraping the floor, my wavy hair swinging as I fought, playing the part. “No, stop, you fuckin’ pig!” I screamed, my voice raw, my brown eyes wide, my pouty lips trembling. He was too strong, his broad frame pinning me, his blue eyes wild with lust. He spun me around, yanking my arms behind my back, my perky tits bouncing, my mini skirt riding up. Cold metal clicked as he cuffed my wrists, the steel biting my pale skin, my tiny cock twitching in my thong.

“Shut the fuck up, you little slut,” he growled, shoving me to my knees, my long legs buckling, my shapely thighs spread on the hardwood. My wavy hair fell over my shoulders, my heart-shaped face tilted up, my brown eyes locked on his as he unzipped his uniform pants, pulling out a 7-inch cock, thick and veiny, the head already glistening. “You wanted rough, you fuckin’ get it,” he snarled, grabbing my wavy hair, yanking my head back, my pouty lips parting with a gasp.

He slammed his cock into my mouth, the thick head hitting the back of my throat, making me gag, my long lashes fluttering, my pale skin flushing. “Fuck, that’s it, take it, you dirty bitch,” he grunted, his hips thrusting, his 7 inches stretching my lips, spit dripping down my chin, soaking my crop top. I struggled, my cuffed hands useless behind me, my perky tits bouncing as I rocked on my knees, my shapely thighs trembling. My tiny cock throbbed in my thong, my tight balls aching as he fucked my throat, his grip on my hair brutal, my brown eyes watering, my high cheekbones burning.

I moaned around him, the vibration making him growl, his thrusts harder, the wet slurp of my lips echoing in the room. “Shit, you’re a good little cocksucker,” he panted, his blue eyes wild, his broad frame looming over me. He pulled my crop top up, exposing my perky tits, pinching my nipples hard, making me yelp around his cock, my pale skin prickling with pain and pleasure. My wavy hair tangled in his fist, my long legs quivering, my plump ass high as I took every inch, spit and precum mixing, dripping onto my thighs.

He yanked my head back, his cock popping free, a string of spit connecting my pouty lips to his tip. “Fuck, you’re a mess,” he growled, smacking my face, the sting making my brown eyes tear up, my high cheekbones reddening. I gasped, my voice raw, my pale skin slick with sweat. “Please, stop, you fuckin’ bastard!” I begged, keeping the fantasy alive, my long lashes wet, my tiny cock leaking in my thong.

He laughed, dark and cruel, pulling me to my feet by my hair, my boots scraping the floor, my long legs stumbling. “Not a chance, slut,” he snarled, shoving me toward the coffee table, bending me over it, my cuffed hands trapped behind me, my perky tits pressed against the glass, my mini skirt flipped up, exposing my thong. My plump ass was high, my shapely thighs spread, my pale skin glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window. He yanked my thong down, my tiny cock and tight balls dangling, his blue eyes widening with surprise, a low whistle escaping him. “Well, fuck me, you weren’t kiddin’,” he muttered, his fingers brushing my tiny cock, making me shiver, my high cheekbones flushing. “That’s fuckin’ hot.”

He knelt behind me, his hands spreading my plump ass, kneading my cheeks rough, his fingers digging into my pale skin. “Goddamn, this ass is perfect,” he growled, smacking my right cheek hard, the crack echoing, my plump ass jiggling, a red handprint blooming. I moaned, my pouty lips trembling, my brown eyes half-closed, my wavy hair spilling over my shoulders. “Fuck, stop, you pig!” I gasped, struggling against the cuffs, my long legs kicking, my shapely thighs trembling. He spanked me again, harder, the sting shooting through me, my tiny cock twitching, my tight balls aching.

His hands kneaded my ass, spreading my cheeks wide, exposing my pink hole, his breath hot against my pale skin. “You’re fuckin’ mine,” he growled, smacking both cheeks, one after the other, the slaps relentless, my plump ass burning, my high cheekbones flushed with heat. I writhed, my perky tits scraping the glass, my cuffed hands clawing uselessly, my long legs trembling, my voice raw. “Please, no more, you fuck!” I screamed, my brown eyes tearing up, my pale skin a patchwork of red handprints, my tiny cock leaking precum onto the table.

He leaned in, biting my ass cheek, his teeth sharp, making me yelp, my shapely thighs quivering, my wavy hair swinging as I fought, the fantasy driving us both. “Fuckin’ delicious,” he muttered, his hands groping my plump ass, kneading hard, his fingers tracing my hole, teasing, making my tiny balls tighten, my 2-inch cock throbbing. I was a mess, my pale skin slick with sweat, my brown eyes wild, my pouty lips trembling, ready for the next brutal round.

My plump ass burned from Daniels’ brutal spanking, red handprints stark against my pale ivory skin, my perky A-cup tits pressed hard against the glass coffee table, my cuffed hands trapped behind me, the steel biting into my wrists. My white crop top was bunched above my tits, my denim mini skirt flipped up, my thong yanked down to my knees, leaving my tiny 2-inch cock and tight balls dangling, precum dripping onto the table. My long, toned legs trembled, shapely thighs spread, my knee-high brown boots scuffing the floor as I struggled, keeping the rape fantasy alive. My dark wavy hair spilled over my shoulders, clinging to my sweaty neck, my brown eyes half-closed with pain and pleasure, my full, pouty lips trembling, my high cheekbones flushed, my heart-shaped face twisted with the intensity of it all.

Daniels knelt behind me, his broad-shouldered, 6’1” frame looming, his uniform pants around his thighs, his 7-inch cock rock-hard and glistening from my spit. His short brown hair was damp with sweat, his blue eyes wild with lust, his clean-shaven jaw clenched as he growled, “Fuck, this ass is too good to just spank.” His hands spread my cheeks again, his fingers circling my pink hole, teasing, making my tight balls tighten, my tiny cock twitching. “Please, no, you fuckin’ pig!” I gasped, my voice raw, my long lashes fluttering, my pale skin prickling as I fought against the cuffs, my shapely thighs quivering.

“Shut the fuck up, slut,” he snarled, his cop lingo rough, spitting on my hole, the wet heat making me moan despite my protests. He pushed two fingers inside, rough and deep, stretching my hole, the burn making my brown eyes tear up, my pouty lips parting with a scream. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, pumping his fingers, curling them against my spot, making my tiny cock leak more, my perky tits scraping the glass as I writhed, my wavy hair swinging. I kicked my long legs, my boots scraping, my voice desperate, “Stop, you bastard, I can’t take it!” But he didn’t stop, adding a third finger, stretching me wider, his knuckles grazing my walls, the pain mixing with pleasure, my high cheekbones burning, my pale skin slick with sweat.

He finger-fucked me hard, his other hand spanking my plump ass again, the crack echoing, my cheeks jiggling, the sting pushing me closer to the edge. “Fuck, you’re takin’ it like a champ,” he growled, his blue eyes locked on my hole, his fingers relentless, in and out, my tight balls aching, my tiny cock throbbing. I moaned, my voice breaking, my long legs trembling, my shapely thighs spread wide, my heart-shaped face twisted, my brown eyes rolling back. “Please, no more, you fuck!” I screamed, my pale skin a mess of red handprints, my wavy hair tangled, my perky tits bouncing with each thrust of his fingers.

He pulled his fingers out, leaving my hole gaping, and stood, his 7-inch cock in hand, slicking it with my spit and his precum. “Time to fuck this ass raw,” he snarled, pressing the thick head against my hole, pushing in slow, the stretch making me scream, my long lashes wet, my pouty lips trembling. “Fuck, no, stop!” I cried, struggling, my cuffed hands clawing uselessly, my long legs kicking, my boots scraping the floor. He thrust deep, his 7 inches filling me, his hips slamming against my plump ass, the slap echoing, my pale skin burning where he gripped my hips, his fingers bruising.

He fucked me hard, bent over the table, his cock pounding my hole, hitting my spot with every thrust, making my tiny cock spurt precum, my tight balls tightening. “Fuck, you’re a tight little bitch,” he grunted, his broad frame rocking me, his uniform scratching my pale skin, his blue eyes wild. My perky tits scraped the glass, my wavy hair swinging, my brown eyes half-closed, my high cheekbones flushed, my voice raw. “Please, stop, you fuckin’ pig!” I gasped, keeping the fantasy alive, my shapely thighs trembling, my long legs buckling, my plump ass taking every brutal inch, the pain and pleasure blurring into one.

He pulled out, leaving me panting, my hole pulsing, and yanked me up by my wavy hair, my boots stumbling, my long legs unsteady. “Up, slut,” he growled, shoving me against the living room wall, my perky tits pressed against the plaster, my cuffed hands trapped behind me, my mini skirt and thong still tangled at my knees. My pale skin scraped the wall, my shapely thighs spread, my plump ass high as he kicked my legs apart, his 7-inch cock nudging my hole again. “No, please, don’t!” I screamed, my voice desperate, my brown eyes wide, my pouty lips trembling, my long lashes fluttering with tears.

“Fuckin’ take it,” he snarled, slamming into me, his cock filling my ass in one brutal thrust, making me scream, my high cheekbones burning, my pale skin slick with sweat. He fucked me standing, his hips slamming against my plump ass, the wet smack echoing, his hands gripping my hips, bruising my pale skin. My tiny cock bounced, smearing precum on the wall, my tight balls aching, my perky tits scraping the plaster, my wavy hair swinging with each thrust. “Shit, your ass is fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, his blue eyes locked on my hole, his broad frame pinning me, his uniform rough against my back.

I struggled, my long legs kicking, my boots scraping the floor, my voice raw. “Stop, you bastard, you’re tearin’ me apart!” I screamed, my brown eyes tearing up, my heart-shaped face twisted, my pale skin burning where he gripped me. He reached around, groping my tiny cock, his fingers rough, making me moan despite my protests, my shapely thighs trembling, my plump ass clenching around his cock. “Fuck, this little thing’s cute,” he growled, stroking me, his thrusts relentless, his 7 inches stretching me, the pain and pleasure making my long legs buckle, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck.

He pulled out, leaving me gasping, my hole gaping, and spun me around, shoving me toward the couch. “On your back, slut,” he ordered, his voice thick, his blue eyes blazing with lust. I stumbled, my boots catching, my long legs shaky, my cuffed hands making me awkward as I fell onto the beige couch, my pale skin slick with sweat, my wavy hair fanning out, my perky tits bouncing. He grabbed my shapely thighs, splaying them wide, my mini skirt bunched around my waist and thong still tangled at my knees, my tiny cock and tight balls exposed, my hole glistening. “No, please, I can’t take any more!” I begged, my brown eyes wide, my pouty lips trembling, my long lashes wet.

“Fuck you can’t,” he snarled, kneeling between my thighs, his 7-inch cock in hand, pressing it against my hole. He thrust in, deep and vicious, making me scream, my high cheekbones flushing, my pale skin prickling, my cuffed hands trapped beneath me, digging into my back. My long legs were spread wide, my shapely thighs trembling, my boots dangling in the air as he fucked me, his hips slamming against my plump ass, the couch creaking, his uniform pants around his thighs, his badge glinting. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunted, his blue eyes locked on my hole, his broad frame rocking me, his hands bruising my thighs, my pale skin marked.

My tiny cock bounced with each thrust, my tight balls tightening, my perky tits jiggling, my wavy hair tangled on the couch, my brown eyes rolling back, my pouty lips parted with moans. “Stop, you fuckin’ pig, you’re killin’ me!” I screamed, my voice raw, my long lashes fluttering, my heart-shaped face twisted with the intensity. He leaned down, biting my nipple, his teeth sharp, making me yelp, my pale skin prickling, my tiny cock throbbing. I came hard, my tiny cock spurting hands-free, cum splattering my stomach, my hole pulsing around his cock, my shapely thighs trembling, my long legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Fuck, you little slut,” he growled, pulling out, leaving my hole gaping, cum leaking from my ass. He yanked me to my knees on the floor, his 7-inch cock in hand, stroking fast. “Open that fuckin’ mouth,” he snarled, his blue eyes wild, his broad frame towering over me. I obeyed, my pouty lips parting, my brown eyes locked on his, my long lashes wet, my high cheekbones flushed. He came hard, his cum spraying across my heart-shaped face, hot and thick, dripping down my pouty lips, my pale skin glistening, some catching in my wavy hair, my perky tits heaving, my tiny cock twitching with aftershocks.

He panted, stepping back, his 7-inch cock softening, his uniform disheveled, his blue eyes softening with guilt. He uncuffed me, the steel clicking free, my wrists red and raw, my pale skin bruised. “Shit, Mira, you okay?” he asked, his cop lingo back, his voice low, his broad shoulders slumping as he adjusted his pants, his badge gleaming again.

I stood, my long legs shaky, my boots steadying me, my wavy hair a mess, cum dripping down my face, my perky tits exposed, my mini skirt hiked up and thong still tangled. I smirked, wiping my pouty lips, my brown eyes glinting, my high cheekbones glowing. “Fuckin’ great, officer,” I purred, pulling my crop top down, adjusting my skirt, my plump ass sore, my pale skin marked. “Thanks for the best fuck I’ve had in a while. Don’t worry ‘bout your wife—she’ll never know.” I winked, my heart-shaped face playful, my long lashes fluttering, and strutted to the door, my shapely thighs flexing, my boots clicking, leaving him stunned.

Outside, the morning air hit my pale skin, cooling the cum on my face, my wavy hair swinging as I walked around the block, out of sight of the brownstone, my long legs steady despite the ache in my ass. I waited by a bodega, my perky tits heaving, my tiny cock soft in my thong, my tight balls relaxed. Frankie’s Cadillac pulled up, his green eyes wide, his slick black hair gleaming, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned out. “Ey, Mira, you good? I got the fuckin’ photos—better, I got the whole damn thing on video. This pig’s done fuckin’ with us, eh? Career, marriage—fuck, he might even do time for rapin’ a teenage trans girl.”

I slid into the passenger seat, my plump ass sinking into the leather, my long legs crossing, my mini skirt riding up, my brown eyes glinting with victory. “Told you, Frankie,” I said, my voice hoarse, my pouty lips curling, my high cheekbones still flushed, cum drying on my pale skin. “You still can’t believe I’m trans, huh? Even after seein’ my cock bounce while he fucked me?”

Frankie laughed, his accent thick, his green eyes flicking to my shapely thighs. “Fuck, Mira, I seen it, but it’s still wild, eh? You’re a fuckin’ weapon, doll.” He drove back toward my E21, the city blurring past—neon signs, shouting vendors, the hum of life. We made small talk, his voice lighter now, the weight of the job off his shoulders. “Boss’ll be happy with this,” he said, smirking. “You might’ve just bought yourself some breathin’ room.”

He dropped me at my E21, still parked by the warehouse on 42nd, the graffiti-covered brick looming. I stepped out, my long legs steady, my plump ass sore, my perky tits bouncing, my wavy hair a mess, cum still flaking on my pale skin. “Stay outta trouble, Mira,” Frankie called, peeling out, his Cadillac disappearing into the city’s veins. I smirked, my brown eyes sharp, my heart-shaped face set, my tiny cock twitching with the thrill of survival. Trouble was my middle name, but I’d just fucked my way out of this mess—and I’d do it again to keep my hustle alive.