𝐌i𝐫a's G𝐚r𝐚g𝐞 𝐆r𝐢n𝐝: A R𝐢d𝐞 𝐖o𝐫t𝐡 𝐂e𝐥e𝐛r𝐚t𝐢n𝐠

The sun’s a fucking asshole today, baking the city into a sweaty haze as I strut out of Jack’s Used Cars, my latest commission jingling in my pocket. I’m Mira, 18 and free, a trans girl who’s been owning this body for two years—5’6”, 56 kg of pure, fuckable chaos. My small, perky tits bounce under a white crop top, thin and tight, nipples teasing through with no bra to tame them. A black leather skirt hugs my plump, juicy ass, riding high to flash my long, toned legs, pale ivory skin glistening in the heat. Thigh-high black stockings cling to my thighs, and ankle boots click with every step, my dark, wavy hair swaying below my shoulders. My heart-shaped face—high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips—catches the light, and my big brown eyes, framed by long lashes, scan the lot for Mark.

That silver BMW E21 I scored from Rusty’s junkyard just got dropped off at Mark’s buddy’s garage, and I’m itching to see what it’ll take to make her mine. Mark’s by the office, wiping grease off his hands—mid-20s, white, tall and lanky at 6’1”, with shaggy blond hair falling into his blue eyes. He’s wiry, lean muscle flexing under a faded green tee and ripped jeans, a goofy grin splitting his tanned face. He’s been eye-fucking me since day one, and I’m ready to play that card.

“Hey, Mark,” I call, sauntering over, hips swaying, letting my skirt ride up to tease my toned thighs. “Car’s at the garage. Wanna roll with me to check it out?”

He looks up, grin widening as his eyes rake over me—my perky tits, my juicy ass, those legs he can’t peel away from. “Hell yeah, Mira. Let’s see what we’re workin’ with. You lookin’ hot as fuck today, by the way.”

I smirk, tossing my wavy hair, full lips parting. “Thanks, babe. Gotta keep it tight, you know?” We hop into his beat-up pickup, and he drives us over, stealing glances at my pale thighs the whole way, his hand twitching like he wants to touch.

The garage is a gritty hole-in-the-wall, stinking of oil and metal. The E21’s up on a lift, silver body solid but scratched, engine a gutted mess. The mechanic—some gruff white dude in his 40s, bald, with a beer gut and a stained jumpsuit—ambles over, wiping his hands. “Mark’s girl, huh? Engine rebuild’s gonna be a bitch—M20’s shot. New pistons, rings, head work, the works. Interior’s trashed—seats, carpet, dash all need replacing. Plus some dents and a paint job. Sixty-five hundred, cash.”

I wince, crossing my arms to push my tits up, pale skin glowing under the fluorescent lights. “Fuck, man, that’s steep. I’ve got five grand burning a hole, but six-five’s pushing it.”

Mark steps in, clapping the guy on the shoulder. “C’mon, Pete, she’s with me. Cut her a break—call it fifty-five hundred. You owe me for that Civic job.”

Pete grumbles, eyeing my plump ass, then nods. “Fine, fifty-five hundred. Two weeks, and she’ll be purring. Silver paint’s extra, but I’ll throw it in.”

I flash a grin, full lips stretching, high cheekbones sharp. “Fuckin’ sweet. Thanks, Mark—you’re a lifesaver.” I lean in close, letting him catch the jasmine off my skin, my brown eyes glinting. “Owe you big time.”

He chuckles, blue eyes dipping to my cleavage. “How about dinner, then? My treat. You’ve been killin’ it at work—let’s celebrate.”

I laugh, throaty and teasing, brushing his arm. “Dinner sounds good, stud. You’ve been eyeballing me all day—don’t think I didn’t notice.”

He blushes, that goofy grin spreading. “Guilty. You’re too damn fine, Mira. Can’t help it.”

Dinner’s at some dive bar—greasy burgers, cold beers, dim lights. I’m sipping a lager, legs crossed so my skirt rides up, showing off my stockings and pale thighs. Mark’s across from me, leaning in, flirting hard. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that? That skirt’s fuckin’ criminal.”

I smirk, batting my lashes, my wavy hair falling over one shoulder. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Mark. You’re not so bad yourself—those arms could pin me down easy.”

He laughs, eyes sparking. “Careful, I might take that as an invite.”

“Play your cards right, maybe it is,” I purr, sipping my beer, full lips wet and teasing. Dinner drags on, all banter and heat, and by the time we’re done, the air’s thick with it.

He drives me home in his truck, my apartment building looming—an eight-story brick shitbox. I’m in 503, fifth floor, a cramped little haven I’ve made mine. He pulls up, killing the engine, and turns to me, blue eyes hungry. “So, uh… can I come up? See your place?”

I lean in, pale skin brushing his arm, my perky tits grazing his chest through the crop top. “You can do more than look, Mark, if you swear it won’t get weird at work. I’m not after some boyfriend bullshit—just a good fuckin’ time.”

He raises a hand, grinning like a kid caught stealing. “Swear to God, Mira. No strings, no drama—just you and me.”

I smirk, sliding out of the truck, my plump ass swaying as I lead him to the elevator. “Then get your ass up here, stud. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The elevator dings at the fifth floor, and I strut out, Mark trailing me like a horny puppy, his blue eyes glued to my plump, juicy ass swaying in that black leather skirt. My white crop top’s clinging to my small, perky tits, nipples hard and poking through, and my thigh-high stockings hug my long, toned legs, pale ivory skin glowing under the shitty hallway lights. My dark, wavy hair bounces below my shoulders as I unlock apartment 503, my heart-shaped face—high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips—turning to flash him a filthy smirk. “Welcome to my shithole, Mark. Don’t just stand there—get in.”

He steps inside, 6’1” of lanky white boy—mid-20s, shaggy blond hair falling into his eyes, wiry muscle flexing under his green tee and jeans. The place is small—couch, coffee table, kitchenette, bedroom down the hall—but it’s mine, and tonight, it’s our fucking playground. He kicks the door shut, grinning. “Nice spot, Mira. Cozy as hell.”

I toss my keys on the table, leaning against it to push my tits out, my brown eyes glinting under long lashes. “Cozy’s one word for it. So, stud, you gonna make good on that ‘more than looking’ promise, or what?”

He steps closer, hands twitching, voice low. “Fuck yeah, I am. Been dying to get my hands on you all night.”

“Then do it,” I purr, closing the gap, my pale skin brushing his chest as I tilt my face up, full lips parting. He grabs me, one hand on my juicy ass, the other tangling in my wavy hair, and crashes his mouth into mine. His lips are warm, hungry, tongue shoving in deep, tasting the beer on me as I moan into him, my perky tits pressing against his tee. I kiss back hard, sucking his tongue, my nails digging into his shoulders, the heat between us sparking like a goddamn fuse.

He breaks off, panting, blue eyes wild. “Fuck, Mira, you’re hot as shit. Get that skirt off—I wanna see that ass.”

I laugh, throaty and wicked, stepping back to peel the leather skirt down slow, letting it drop to my ankles, revealing my black lace thong barely holding my tiny cock and balls, my plump cheeks spilling out. My stockings stay on, clinging to my toned thighs, and I kick the skirt aside, boots still laced. “Like what you see, huh?” I tease, turning to shake my ass at him, pale globes jiggling.

“Goddamn,” he groans, yanking his tee off, showing off a lean, tanned chest with a light dusting of blond hair. He grabs me again, hands roaming—squeezing my tits through the crop top, then sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me tight against him. I feel his cock straining his jeans, and I grind into it, my tiny cock twitching in my thong. “Let’s get dirty,” he mutters, lifting my top over my head, tossing it, baring my perky tits—nipples pink and stiff.

“Fuckin’ do it,” I gasp, and he drops to his knees, shoving me onto the couch. I land on my back, legs spread, stockings framing my pale thighs, thong stretched tight. He yanks it down, freeing my tiny cock and balls, and dives in, his tongue lapping at my tight hole, hot and wet. “Shit, Mark, eat that ass,” I moan, my long legs trembling as he rims me deep, swirling around my rim, then sucking hard, making me squirm. His hands grip my plump cheeks, spreading them wide, and he shoves a finger in—rough, calloused—pumping slow as he licks, my pale skin flushing red.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he growls, adding a second finger, stretching me open, my hole clenching as I buck against his face. I grab his blond hair, yanking him up, and pull him into a 69—me on top, straddling his face, my tiny cock dangling over his mouth. He spreads my cheeks and dives in, while I unzip his jeans, freeing his cock—six inches, thick, straight, with a smooth, pink head leaking pre-cum. I swallow him down, lips stretching, tongue swirling the salty tip, gagging as he thrusts up, fucking my throat while he eats my ass below.

“Goddamn, suck that dick, you sexy bitch,” he grunts, his tongue plunging deeper, fingers still working my hole. My wavy hair falls around my face, sticking to my full lips as I drool on him, my perky tits bouncing with every move. We roll off the couch, a sweaty tangle, and he flips me onto my back—legs up, stockings brushing his shoulders, my pale thighs wide. He lines up, his thick cock pressing against me, and slams in—deep, hot, stretching me raw.

“Fuck, Mark, fuck me hard,” I wail, my brown eyes wide, lashes fluttering as he pounds me, the couch creaking. My tits jiggle with every thrust, nipples aching, and he leans down, kissing me fierce, tongue shoving in as his hips slap my ass, loud and wet. His hands grip my toned thighs, bruising my pale skin, and I claw his back, moaning into his mouth, my tiny cock leaking onto my stomach.

He pulls out, panting, and shifts me on my side, one long leg hooked over his shoulder, the other pinned under him. “Gonna fuck you silly, Mira,” he growls, plunging back in, the angle hitting deep, making me scream. “Shit, shit, shit!” I chant, my plump ass bouncing, his balls smacking my pale cheek as he drills me, sweat dripping off his tanned chest onto my tits. He fingers my nipples, twisting hard, and I clench around him, my hole gripping his thick shaft.

“Flip over, you hot little slut,” he orders, pulling out, his cock slick and throbbing. I roll onto my stomach, face down, ass up, my wavy hair splayed across the cushions, my perky tits pressed flat. He straddles me, hands spreading my plump cheeks, and rams back in, slow and deep, then fast, pounding me into the couch. “Take it, fuck, take it,” he snarls, spanking my ass—crack—leaving a red mark on my ivory skin, my long legs trembling under him.

“Harder, you bastard,” I beg, voice muffled, my full lips smearing spit on the fabric. He grabs my hair, yanking my head back, and fucks me relentless, his thick cock splitting me open, my tiny cock grinding into the couch, leaking hot and sticky. He pulls out again, flipping me onto my back, legs up high, and slams in one more time, passionate and raw, his blue eyes locked on mine. “Fuck, Mira, you’re unreal,” he groans, kissing me deep, tongue tangling with mine as he thrusts, my pale body rocking under him.

“Mark, oh fuck, Mark!” I wail, the heat exploding, my tiny cock spurting across my stomach, my perky tits heaving. He roars, slamming in deep, flooding my ass with his thick load—hot, pulsing, spilling out as he grinds against me, panting into my neck.

He collapses beside me, cock softening, jeans around his knees, my thong and crop top long gone, stockings torn at the thighs, my pale skin streaked with sweat and cum. I smirk, catching my breath, my wavy hair a mess. “Fuckin’ hell, Mark. You’re a beast.”

He grins, goofy again, brushing my hair back. “You’re somethin’ else, Mira. No weirdness, right?”

“Nope,” I say, sitting up, my plump ass aching, brown eyes glinting. “Just a damn good fuck. Now get out—I need a shower.”

He laughs, pulling his jeans up, and heads for the door. I watch him go, still the queen of my filthy little world, that BMW on its way—and a night I won’t forget.