𝐌i𝐫a’s H𝐢g𝐡-𝐑i𝐬e H𝐮s𝐭l𝐞: A N𝐢g𝐡t o𝐟 𝐖e𝐞d a𝐧d W𝐞a𝐥t𝐡

The buzz of my phone yanks me out of a lazy sprawl on my couch, my bare feet propped on the armrest, the hum of the city’s chaos seeping through my apartment window. My BMW E21 sits parked outside, silver paint glinting under the streetlights like it’s daring me to stir up some shit. I grab the phone, and Kemar’s voice rolls through, thick with that Jamaican patois that always makes my lips twitch into a smirk.

“Yo, empress, mi deh pon a likkle road trip, y’know? Need ya fi pick up a pack a ganja from mi bredda at Rasta Roadhouse. Deliver it to a big money client at Club Obsidian—fancy spot, top a di line. Ya game fi dis?” His tone’s all easy charm, but there’s an edge, like he knows I’m already hooked.

“Fuck yeah, Kemar,” I say, sitting up, my dark wavy hair spilling over my shoulders. “What’s the payout?”

“Client’s loaded, gwan tip ya heavy if ya play nice. Just drop di pack, keep it smooth, ya hear?”

I’m already on my feet, brown eyes glinting with the thrill of a hustle. “Smooth’s my middle name, big man. I got this.” He chuckles, low and warm, and we hang up. My heart’s thumping—not from nerves, but from that familiar buzz of diving headfirst into some chaotic shit. I head to my closet, ready to dress the part.

I slip into a purple sequined crop top, its corset-like structure hugging my small, perky tits, leaving my pale midriff bare. The matching fringed jacket shimmers as I slide it on, its long sleeves catching the light like liquid amethyst. Black high-waisted tights cling to my plump ass and shapely thighs, the fabric stretching just right to show off every curve. I step into glossy black thigh-high stiletto boots, the heels clicking on my hardwood floor as I braid my hair into tight boxer braids, framing my heart-shaped face. A quick sweep of party makeup—smoky eyeshadow, winged liner, and glossy pink lipstick on my full, pouty lips—and I’m fucking lethal. I check the mirror, my long lashes fluttering, my straight nose and high cheekbones popping under the light. My tiny cock and tight balls twitch under the tights, a secret only I know for now. I’m ready to walk into any VIP club and own it.

I grab my keys, lock up, and slide into my E21, the engine purring as I peel out toward Rasta Roadhouse. The city’s alive—neon signs flashing, horns blaring, the air thick with summer heat and desperation. I weave through traffic, my thighs flexing against the leather seat, my mind racing with the night’s possibilities.

Rasta Roadhouse is its usual grimy self, a squat brick building with reggae blasting and weed smoke curling from the open door. I strut inside, boots clicking, drawing stares from the dreadlocked regulars nursing Red Stripes. Kemar’s brother, Dwayne—mid-40s, Black, 6’2”, lean with shoulder-length dreads and dark eyes—spots me from behind the bar. His gold tooth flashes as he grins.

“Mira, mi sistah, ya look like trouble tonight,” he says, sliding a sealed brown bag across the counter. “Dis di pack. Client’s at Obsidian, name Khalid. Don’t fuck it up, ya hear?”

I tuck the bag into my jacket, smirking. “When do I ever fuck up, Dwayne?” He laughs, shaking his head, and I’m out the door, the weight of the weed a quiet promise of cash and chaos.

Club Obsidian is downtown, a sleek high-rise with a glass facade that screams money. The line outside snakes around the block, but I breeze past the bouncer, a hulking white guy with a shaved head, who eyes my ass like it’s his next meal. Inside, the place pulses—neon lights strobing, hip-hop thumping, bodies grinding on the dancefloor. The air’s thick with sweat, perfume, and ambition. I scan the VIP section, my brown eyes narrowing until I spot him: Khalid.

He’s early 40s, Arab, fat as fuck, his hairy chest spilling out of an unbuttoned silk shirt, gold chains glinting under the lights. A Rolex flashes on his wrist, and his dark eyes are already locked on me, or more specifically, my plump ass swaying in these tights. He’s sprawled on a velvet couch, three male sycophants—white, mid-20s, preppy, forgettable faces—fake-laughing at his every word. Two escorts flank him: Lena, late 20s, white, blonde, blue-eyed, with fake tits straining her red mini dress; and Zara, mid-20s, Black, curvy, with long braids and hazel eyes, her silver dress hugging her thick thighs. They’re stunning, but their eye-rolls at Khalid’s antics scream they’re here for the cash.

I saunter over, boots clicking, the bag tucked inside my jacket. Khalid’s gaze rakes me from my perky tits to my long, toned legs, his grin wide and sloppy.

“Habibti, you are a vision!” he booms, his thick Arabic accent slurring from too much champagne. “What’s your name, huh? You here to save my night?”

I flash a pouty smile, tossing my braids. “Mira. Got something for you, big man.” I pat my jacket, subtle, and slide onto the couch beside him, my thigh brushing his. The sycophants stare, Lena smirks, and Zara’s hazel eyes flick over me, curious.

Khalid claps, too loud. “Mira! Like a mirage, yes? You know, I once rode a camel across the desert—faster than my Hummer, I swear!” He roars at his own joke, but his crew’s forced chuckles and the girls’ blank stares tell me it’s a miss. I laugh anyway, leaning in, letting my crop top ride up to show more pale skin.

“Camel, huh? Bet it didn’t have my curves,” I tease, my voice low, my brown eyes locked on his. He groans, fanning himself, and I know I’ve got him hooked.

“Stay, Mira, stay!” he begs, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket, hundreds fanning out. “Party with us, habibti. You’re too beautiful to leave!” Lena raises an eyebrow, but Zara nods slightly, like she’s sizing me up for more than just the vibe.

I hesitate, but the cash, the neon, the fucking pulse of this place—it’s got me buzzing. “Alright, Khalid, I’m in. But you better keep up.” I wink, and he whoops, ordering more champagne. The sycophants scurry to fetch it, and I slip the bag under the table to him, our hands brushing. He tucks it away, no questions, and pours me a glass, his fingers lingering on mine.

We drink, the bubbly burning my throat, and hit the dancefloor, the beat thumping through my boots. Khalid’s no dancer, his gut jiggling as he tries to keep up, but his hands are bold, roaming my hips, my waist, my ass. I grind back, my tights stretching over my plump cheeks, feeling his bulge press against me. Lena and Zara join, their bodies slick with sweat, Lena’s blonde hair sticking to her neck, Zara’s braids swinging as she twerks. The sycophants hover, but Khalid’s eyes are on us three, his gold chains glinting as he leers.

“Fuck, you girls are fire!” he shouts over the music, trying another joke. “What’s hotter than a desert? You three on my dick!” It’s cringeworthy, but I laugh, spinning to face him, my perky tits bouncing under the sequins. His hand slides lower, between my thighs, brushing the tiny bulge of my cock through the tights. My breath catches, but his dark eyes widen, then crinkle with a drunken grin.

“Still a goddess, habibti,” he slurs, unfazed, his fingers lingering, stroking me through the fabric. I moan softly, my long lashes fluttering, the public touch sending a jolt through my pale crotch. Lena notices, smirking, but Zara’s too busy grinding on a sycophant to care. Khalid’s boldness, the champagne, the fucking cocaine we snort in the bathroom—it’s got me reckless, my brown eyes gleaming with hunger.

By 3 a.m., we’re wasted, the club a blur. Khalid ditches the sycophants, waving them off like flies. “To my penthouse!” he declares, grabbing my wrist, Lena’s arm, Zara’s waist. We stumble out, pile into his Hummer—black, chrome rims, reeking of new leather. He speeds through the city, neon lights streaking past, and I’m in the back, Lena’s hand on my thigh, Zara’s braids brushing my shoulder. My tights are damp with sweat, my crop top riding up, exposing my perky tits to the cool air.

The skyscraper’s elevator is all glass, shooting us up to the top. Khalid’s hands are everywhere—groping my ass, squeezing Lena’s tits, pinching Zara’s thighs. We spill out onto his penthouse terrace, a fucking palace of marble and glass, the city sprawling below. A pool glitters under string lights, and a bar’s stocked with more booze and blow. Khalid cranks the music—some trap remix—and we party harder, snorting lines off a glass table, my braids swinging as I laugh, my pouty lips glossy with champagne.

The penthouse terrace is a fucking fever dream—city lights sprawling below, the pool’s turquoise glow flickering, trap beats pounding through hidden speakers. My purple sequined crop top clings to my perky tits, damp with sweat, and my black tights hug my plump ass so tight I can feel every seam. The fringed jacket’s long sleeves shimmer as I move, my thigh-high stiletto boots clicking on the marble deck. My boxer braids swing, framing my heart-shaped face, my full pouty lips glossy from champagne. Khalid’s already half-drunk, his hairy gut spilling over his silk pants, gold chains glinting as he pours more Dom Pérignon. Lena’s red mini dress rides up her fake tits, her blue eyes glassy from coke, while Zara’s silver dress stretches over her curvy hips, her hazel eyes sharp despite the haze. We’re all high as fuck, the cocaine buzzing through my veins, my brown eyes gleaming with reckless hunger.

Khalid’s got that sleazy grin, his dark eyes raking my long, toned legs as he stumbles toward me. “Habibti, you dance like a fucking dream, but I bet you fuck like a goddess!” he slurs, his Arabic accent thick, trying for another lame joke. “What’s tighter than my wallet? Your ass, yes?” It’s fucking awful, but I laugh, tossing my braids, my pale skin flushing under the string lights.

“Keep dreaming, big man,” I tease, but my voice is low, dripping with invitation. Lena smirks, sidling up to me, her blonde hair sticking to her neck. “Girl, you’re trouble,” she murmurs, her hand grazing my thigh, inches from my tiny cock. Zara’s watching, her braids swaying as she grinds to the beat, her thick thighs flexing. The air’s electric, and I know shit’s about to go wild.

Khalid claps, spilling champagne. “Strip, my queens! Let’s see the goods!” Lena giggles, kicking off her heels, and Zara’s already peeling her silver dress up, revealing lacy black panties and a shaved pussy glistening under the lights. I step back, my boots clicking, and give them a show. I sway my hips, slow and deliberate, my fringed jacket catching the neon as I slide it off one shoulder, then the other, letting it slither to the deck in a shimmering pool. My crop top’s next—I grip the hem, teasing it up, exposing my pale midriff inch by inch, my perky tits straining against the sequins. I pull it over my head, my small tits bouncing free, nipples hardening in the cool air, my braids swinging as I toss the top aside. Khalid groans, stroking himself through his pants, his dark eyes ravenous.

“Fuck, habibti, those tits,” he mutters, his voice thick. I smirk, kicking one boot against the deck, bending slow to unzip the first, my plump ass jutting out, tights stretching. I slide the boot off, then the other, my long, toned legs flexing, pale toes curling on the marble. My tights come next—I hook my thumbs in the waistband, shimmying them down my shapely thighs, the fabric peeling away like a second skin. My thong’s revealed, black lace barely covering my tiny cock and tight balls, pale against my ivory crotch. I turn, giving Khalid my ass, bending slightly to slide the tights to my ankles, stepping out slow. Finally, I hook my fingers in my thong, dragging it down, my tiny 2-inch cock springing free, balls tight, my pale skin glowing under the lights. Khalid’s eyes widen—he’s touched it before, but seeing it bare, he’s fucking transfixed.

“Still a goddess, habibti,” he growls, his hand in his pants, his grin hungry. “Perfect fucking package.” Lena’s dress is gone, her fake tits defying gravity, her pussy waxed smooth. Zara’s naked, her curvy body glistening, her thick thighs spread, pussy shaved and slick. I’m bare now, my braids swinging, my pouty lips parted, my brown eyes burning with need.

Khalid’s done waiting. He grabs Lena, shoving her to her knees on the deck, her blonde hair spilling over her face. “Suck me, princess,” he barks, yanking his silk pants, revealing a thick, 8-inch cock, veiny, with a bulbous head, already leaking precum. Lena obeys, her lips wrapping around him, slurping loud, her tongue swirling his shaft, spit dripping down her chin. I watch, my tiny cock twitching, my pale crotch tingling as Zara kneels before me, her hazel eyes locked on mine, her breath hot on my tiny cock. “Let’s see what you got, gorgeous,” she purrs, her tongue flicking my tip, a jolt shooting through my tight balls.

“Fuck, Zara, that mouth,” I moan, my long lashes fluttering, my hands tangling in her braids. Her lips close around my 2 inches, warm and wet, sucking deep, her tongue curling around my balls, teasing the sensitive skin. I’m hard instantly, my pouty lips parting as I gasp, my shapely thighs trembling. Khalid’s watching, one hand gripping Lena’s hair, the other beckoning me. “Mira, join her, habibti. Taste this fucking cock!”

I drop beside Lena, my knees hitting the marble, my plump ass jutting out, pale cheeks begging for a slap. Khalid’s cock is right there, thick and musky, Lena’s spit glistening on it. I lean in, my tongue tracing the shaft, tangy with precum, the veins pulsing under my lips. Lena pulls back, grinning, her blue eyes wicked, and we work together, our lips meeting around his bulbous head, tongues swirling, sloppy and fucking filthy. I suck hard, his cock hitting my throat, gagging me, my brown eyes watering, spit dripping down my chin. Lena’s hand cups my perky tits, her fingers pinching my nipples, the pain sparking pleasure through my pale skin. I moan into Khalid’s cock, the vibrations making him curse.

“Fucking hell, you sluts,” he groans, grabbing my braids, thrusting into my mouth, his hips bucking. My pouty lips stretch around him, my tongue flicking his slit, tasting more precum. Zara’s still on my cock, her fingers sliding back, probing my ass. She pushes one in, slow, stretching my tight hole, then adds a second, curling them, grazing my prostate. I buck, my tiny cock twitching in her mouth, my thighs quaking. “Shit, Zara, deeper, fuck!” I gasp, spit slicking my chin, my pale skin gleaming with sweat. Lena’s eating my ass now, her tongue circling my rim, wet and relentless, darting inside, making me whimper. Zara’s third finger joins, pumping hard, my hole clenching, the stretch burning so fucking good.

Khalid pulls out, his cock glistening, and yanks Lena up, bending her over the pool’s edge, her fake tits pressed against the deck, her ass high. “Time to fuck, princess,” he growls, spanking her cheeks red, each slap echoing. He slams into her pussy, his 8 inches disappearing in one brutal thrust, her scream ripping through the night. Khalid’s hand finds my ass, spanking me hard, the sting making my tiny cock leak, precum dripping on the marble. “Mira, eat Zara, now, you slut!”

I crawl to Zara, who’s sprawled on a lounge chair, her thick thighs spread, pussy glistening, tangy and sweet. I dive in, my pouty lips kissing her clit, sucking gently, my tongue lapping her folds, her juices coating my chin. She moans, her braids fanning out, her hands gripping my braids, pulling tight. “Fuck, Mira, that tongue’s magic,” she gasps, grinding against my face, her hips rolling. My ass is up, and Khalid’s fingers find my hole, two thick digits pumping, curling, hitting my prostate with every thrust. I whimper into Zara’s pussy, my tiny cock throbbing, untouched, my pale belly slick with sweat.

Khalid’s done with Lena, pulling out, his cock slick with her juices. He grabs me, dragging me to the deck, my bare feet slipping on the marble. “Your turn, habibti,” he says, bending me over, my elbows digging into the deck, my plump ass high, begging. He spanks me, each slap louder than the last, my pale cheeks burning, the pain blooming into pleasure. “Look at this fucking ass,” he mutters, spreading my cheeks, his tongue flicking my hole, then plunging in, wet and rough, fucking me with it. I moan, my brown eyes rolling, my braids swinging, my tiny cock slapping my thighs.

He stands, his cock pressing against my ass, the bulbous head thick, stretching my rim. “Take it, slut,” he growls, thrusting in, no lube, just spit and sweat, the burn fucking intense. I scream, my hole clenching around his 8 inches, every vein scraping my walls. He pounds me doggy, his hands bruising my hips, my perky tits bouncing, my tiny cock smacking my pale thighs. Zara slides under me, her tongue on Khalid’s balls, sucking loud, her lips grazing my stretched hole as he fucks me. Lena’s beside me, kissing my neck, her tongue tracing my pulse, her fingers pinching my nipples, twisting hard, pain and pleasure colliding.

“Fuck, Khalid, harder, you bastard!” I beg, my voice hoarse, my pale skin slick with sweat. He flips me onto a lounge chair, my back slamming the cushions, my long legs spread wide, bare feet in the air. He re-enters, his cock slamming my prostate, the jolt making my tiny cock leak, precum pooling on my pale belly. Lena straddles my face, her pussy dripping, and I lap at her, my tongue fucking her hole, her fake tits bouncing as she grinds, smothering me. Zara’s sucking my cock again, her lips tight, her fingers in my ass alongside Khalid’s dick, three digits stretching me fucking wide, my hole burning, my body shaking, my brown eyes glazed.

Khalid pulls out, grabbing Zara, laying her beside me, her thick thighs spread, pussy glistening. He fucks her hard, his cock plunging into her, her moans loud, her braids whipping. I crawl over, my tongue on her clit, lapping fast, her juices flooding my mouth as Khalid pounds her. We shift to a 69, my tiny cock in her mouth, her lips sucking hard, my face buried in her pussy, Khalid’s hairy gut slapping my forehead. “Fucking sluts,” he pants, spanking Zara’s thighs, then reaching to slap mine, the sting pushing me over. I cum, my tiny cock spurting on Zara’s tongue, my body convulsing, my pale skin trembling.

He’s relentless. He flips me poolside, my back on the deck, my long legs over his shoulders, my bare toes curling. “Gonna wreck this ass,” he growls, thrusting in, raw and brutal, his 8 inches slamming my prostate, every stroke a fucking explosion. Lena’s on my face again, her pussy grinding, my tongue deep, her juices dripping down my chin. Zara’s fingering herself beside us, her hazel eyes burning, her moans mixing with mine. Khalid’s hands bruise my shapely thighs, his cock stretching my hole, my tiny cock leaking, untouched. I cum again, my 2 inches spurting on my pale belly, my long legs quaking, my moans muffled in Lena’s cunt.

Finally, Khalid pulls out, stroking his cock, his face twisted. “Kneel, you filthy bitches!” he barks. We scramble to our knees—me, Lena, Zara—our faces upturned, my braids sticking to my sweaty neck, my pouty lips parted, my pale skin glistening. Khalid strokes faster, grunting, and unloads, thick ropes of cum splattering my face, my perky tits, my pale belly. Lena catches some, her fake tits coated, Zara too, her curvy body slick. We laugh, our tongues sloppy, licking cum off each other’s faces, chins dripping, the terrace echoing with our chaos.

Dawn’s breaking, the city skyline glowing pink. I’m a fucking mess—cum-soaked, bruised, my tights and crop top crumpled on the deck, my boots still on, my plump ass sore. Khalid tosses me a wad of cash—$2,000, his “tip”—and collapses on a chair, snoring already. Lena and Zara dress, giggling, and I pull on my tights, my crop top, my jacket, the sequins dull now. My brown eyes gleam, my hustle still burning.

I hail a taxi outside, my E21 waiting back at Obsidian. The driver eyes my sticky dress, but I just smirk, sinking into the seat, my pale skin tingling, my tiny cock soft but satisfied. The night’s chaos fuels me, my heart pounding for whatever fucked-up game comes next.