I scrolled through the job listings on my laptop in my tiny dorm room at the private university in Dhaka, the humid August air making my skin sticky and slick even with the fan whirring overhead. The ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the thick, moist air that carried the distant hum of traffic from the streets below, the blades cutting through the humidity like a lover's breath on overheated flesh. Dhaka never slept; even in the late afternoon, I could hear the honking of rickshaws and the chatter of vendors hawking their wares—fresh mangoes, spicy chaat, and colorful scarves that fluttered like flags in the breeze. My room was a cramped space, just enough for a single bed, a rickety desk, and a wardrobe stuffed with my clothes. Posters of Bollywood stars and fashion icons adorned the walls, a small rebellion against the plain beige paint. I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, my long, dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail that brushed against my back with every movement, sending shivers down to where my thongs clung damply to my semi-hard 3½-inch cocklette and tight balls, the humid air making my pussy-ass tingle with unspoken need, a forbidden wetness gathering between my thighs as I shifted, the fabric rubbing teasingly against my sensitive skin.
I was dressed in my favorite shalwar-kameez, a vibrant pink one that clung softly to my curves like a second skin, the light fabric breathable yet tantalizing against the heat, hugging my perky B-cup tits so tightly that my nipples hardened into firm peaks from the fan's cool gusts, poking through like eager buds begging for a pinch. The kameez hugged my small breasts and narrow waist before flaring out slightly, while the shalwar pants tapered around my shapely thighs, the cotton grazing my plump ass cheeks with every subtle grind against the chair. My dupatta draped elegantly over my shoulders, swaying gently as I shifted in my chair, its silky edges whispering against my flushed skin, occasionally brushing my hardening nipples and sending jolts straight to my throbbing cocklette, pre-cum beading at the tip and soaking my thongs. I loved how it added a touch of tradition to my look, blending with the modern high heels I often paired it with, though right now I was barefoot, my elegant feet tucked under me, toes curling as I imagined rough hands exploring my secret trans body. Absentmindedly, I traced my curves with one hand, fingers trailing from my collarbones down to my narrow waist, dipping lower to press against my thongs, feeling my tiny cock twitch and leak more pre-cum, my tight balls drawing up in the humid heat, my asshole clenching with a needy pulse.
It had been a tough few months since moving from Sylhet—tuition fees were piling up, and I needed something flexible to cover expenses without cutting into my studies. Back home, life had been simpler: family gatherings with laughter echoing through our modest house, the scent of my mother's biryani wafting from the kitchen, and the green hills rolling endlessly. But Dhaka was a beast of its own—crowded, chaotic, alive with opportunity and peril. I missed the quiet, but the city's pulse excited me, pushing me to chase dreams I never voiced aloud, dreams that sometimes veered into forbidden fantasies of being taken, used, my trans body exposed and worshipped in the shadows.
My heart-shaped face reflected back at me from the laptop screen when it went dark for a moment, my expressive almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes staring back with determination, my full pouty lips parting slightly as I bit them, glossed in a subtle pink that made them look even more kissable, suckable. I refreshed the page. That's when I spotted it: a high-end fashion brand, LuxeThreads, hiring saleswomen for their new outlet in Gulshan. The ad promised trendy clothes, competitive pay, and a chance to work with cutting-edge styles. It was perfect—I lived for fashion, always mixing traditional shalwar-kameez with modern twists like high heels and bold accessories. My mind raced with images of their collections: fusion pieces that married intricate Bengali embroidery with sleek Western cuts, outfits that made women feel powerful and beautiful—and secretly, of being fitted myself, hands on my body, measuring every curve, every secret inch of my 3½-inch cock hidden beneath, fingers probing my tight asshole as I tried on outfits, the thought making my cocklette throb harder, pre-cum dripping steadily now, soaking through my thongs and making my thighs slick. I could see myself there, helping customers find that perfect ensemble, chatting about the latest trends over cups of chai in the break room, but in my fantasies, it turned dirtier—customers eyeing my curves, whispering about my hidden cock, pulling me into fitting rooms for quick, filthy fucks.
I polished my resume, highlighting my charisma from university events—organizing fashion shows for cultural fests where I'd strutted in my own designs, my hips swaying, ass jiggling, cock tucked tightly but leaking from the thrill—and my eye for trends. I added a photo, one where my long hair cascaded in silky waves down my back, my soft rounded cheeks flushed with a natural glow, and my small pierced ears adorned with simple studs catching the light, my full lips curved in a sultry smile that hinted at the slutty desires bubbling beneath. Hitting send felt like a leap, my smooth, slender throat bobbing as I swallowed nervously, my hand slipping between my legs to stroke my hardening cocklette through the shalwar, touching myself lightly, pre-cum flooding as I imagined the interview turning into something raw, dominant. A week later, my phone buzzed with an interview invite at their head office in Dhanmondi. My heart raced; this could be it. I jumped up, my dupatta slipping slightly as I paced the room, the fabric brushing against my wide, curvaceous hips, my perky tits bouncing with each step, nipples rubbing against the kameez and sending sparks to my leaking cock. Excitement bubbled in my chest, mixing with the ever-present humidity that made everything feel heavier, more intense, my thongs now drenched, asshole twitching with anticipation.
The days leading up to the interview were a blur of preparation. I practiced answers in front of the mirror, watching how my delicate nose wrinkled when I concentrated, how my collarbones peeked from the neckline of my tops, my fingers trailing down to cup my perky tits, pinching my nipples until they throbbed, imagining the interviewers' mouths on them. I researched LuxeThreads obsessively—their flagship store in Gulshan was a hotspot for the elite, with marble floors and racks of silk sarees alongside designer jeans. Dhaka's fashion scene was booming, influenced by global trends but rooted in our culture: women in hijabs pairing them with skinny pants, or bold kurtas over leggings. I imagined myself fitting right in, my trendy sense standing out, but in my fantasies, it was me bent over racks, ass up, taking cock from customers in the back. To calm my nerves, I took long walks through the university campus, the paths lined with banyan trees providing fleeting shade from the sun. Students milled about, some in traditional attire, others in Western clothes, debating politics or gossiping about the latest drama. "Ei, Nusrat, tumi kothay jaachho?" a friend called out—hey, Nusrat, where are you going? I waved them off with a smile, my long legs carrying me gracefully, the sway of my hips natural and confident, my cocklette rubbing against my thighs with each step, pre-cum making everything slippery, my mind drifting to filthy scenarios.
The day of the interview arrived with a downpour, typical Dhaka monsoon turning the streets into rivers. I navigated the chaos on a rickshaw, the driver pedaling furiously through puddles, shouting "Bhai, side dao!" to motorists—brother, give way! The air smelled of wet earth and street food, samosas frying under tarps. I clutched my umbrella, careful not to let the rain ruin my carefully chosen outfit: a sleek blue shalwar-kameez that accentuated my curves, the fabric smooth against my skin, clinging wetly in places from the humidity, outlining my perky tits and hardening nipples. The kameez fitted snugly around my perky breasts and narrow waist, flaring into wide hips, while the shalwar hugged my shapely thighs before loosening at the calves, the damp fabric teasing my semi-hard cocklette and tight balls. My dupatta draped elegantly over my shoulders, its edges embroidered with silver threads that caught the dim light. I paired it with white high-heel pumps that elongated my graceful stride, making my long, toned legs look endless, the heels clicking with a seductive rhythm. I applied a touch of makeup—smoky eyes to enhance my almond-shaped eyes, red lips to highlight my full pouty ones—to bring out my stunning beauty, imagining those lips wrapped around thick cocks by the end. As I stepped into the air-conditioned office building, the cool blast hit me like a relief, drying the dampness on my skin but making my nipples peak harder. I felt eyes on me from the receptionist, a middle-aged Bengali woman in a saree, her gaze lingering on my figure with a mix of envy and curiosity, to the security guard, a burly man in uniform who nodded appreciatively, his eyes tracing my wide hips and imagining bending me over. Confidence surged through me; I was ready to charm them—or seduce them if needed.
The lobby was modern, with polished floors reflecting the overhead lights and walls adorned with LuxeThreads posters—models in vibrant outfits posing against Dhaka's skyline, their bodies arched in ways that made my cocklette twitch. I signed in, my elegant feet clicking in the heels as I walked to the elevator, each step sending vibrations up my legs to my leaking pussy-ass. Inside, a group of office workers chatted in Bengali, mixing in English words like "meeting" and "deadline." I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls: my heart-shaped face flushed slightly from the rush, my soft rounded cheeks adding to my youthful allure, my smooth throat leading to delicate collarbones, my perky tits heaving with excitement, nipples tenting the kameez. The elevator dinged, and I stepped out into the head office floor, a buzz of activity with employees typing away or discussing designs over coffee.
The interview room was sleek, with glass walls overlooking the bustling streets of Dhanmondi—cars honking, pedestrians weaving through traffic, vendors pushing carts of fruits. The rain had stopped, leaving the air hazy. Three men waited behind a long table: the Managing Director, a mid-50s Bengali male with salt-and-pepper hair, a potbelly straining against his crisp shirt, and sharp, predatory eyes that scanned me as I entered, lingering on my perky tits and wide hips, his gaze darkening with lust as he shifted, the outline of his thick 7-inch cock bulging in his pants. Next to him was the Hiring Manager, mid-40s Bengali male, lean and bespectacled, with a smug smile that didn't reach his eyes, but his lean frame tensed, his crotch tenting visibly as he eyed my long legs, imagining them wrapped around him. And then the Outlet Manager, late-30s Bengali male, with a muscular build, a tattoo peeking from his collar, his warm brown eyes looking me up and down like I was already hired—or more, his sharp jawline tightening as his 8-inch monster throbbed in his trousers, pre-cum likely staining his underwear. They introduced themselves curtly: "I'm Mr. Rahman," the older one said, his voice gravelly, gesturing to the others, his hand subtly adjusting his growing erection. "Mr. Islam here handles hiring, and Mr. Khan will be your direct supervisor at the Gulshan outlet if things go well."
I sat across from them, crossing my legs gracefully, my high heels pointing elegantly, the movement making my shalwar ride up slightly, teasing my shapely thighs and sending a thrill to my leaking cocklette. The chair was leather, cool against my thighs through the shalwar, but the heat from their stares made my thongs dampen further. "Thank you for having me," I said, my voice steady, laced with the soft Sylheti accent that made my words melodic, but I added a sultry undertone, my full pouty lips curving in a flirtatious smile, imagining those lips stretched around their cocks.
The grilling started immediately. Mr. Rahman leaned forward, his potbelly pressing against the table, his sharp eyes narrowing, but drifting hungrily to my heaving tits. "Miss Nusrat, why should we hire you for sales? This is a high-end brand; our customers expect sophistication. Gulshan clientele—affluent families, celebrities even—demand the best." His voice was thick, his bulge twitching visibly now, the air filling with his musky scent.
I smiled, my full lips curving, feeling the gloss stick slightly, my nipples throbbing under his gaze. "Mr. Rahman, I've always been passionate about fashion. In university, I organized events where we blended traditional Bengali elements with modern trends, like pairing a shalwar-kameez with statement jewelry. I understand sophistication isn't just about the clothes; it's about making the customer feel seen, valued—touched in ways that linger. Dhaka's fashion is evolving—think of the fusion wear at weddings, where sarees meet Western blouses. I can bring that energy to LuxeThreads, helping customers find pieces that reflect their personality... or their deepest desires." My words dripped with innuendo, my expressive eyes locking on his bulge, my own cocklette dripping pre-cum as I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, the friction making my tight balls ache.
He nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to where my dupatta had slipped a bit, revealing the curve of my small breasts under the kameez, his breath hitching as he palmed his crotch discreetly. Mr. Islam adjusted his glasses, his smug smile widening, his lean cock outline pulsing. "Impressive. But what if a client complains about sizing? Our pieces are imported; alterations aren't always straightforward."
I leaned in slightly, my long hair shifting over my shoulder, my perky tits heaving with each breath, nipples diamond-hard under the kameez as their eyes devoured me. "I'd listen first—empathize, say something like 'Ami bujhi, eta frustrating hote pare'—I understand, this can be frustrating. Then, suggest alternatives from our collection, perhaps a similar style in their size, or coordinate with our tailor for quick fixes. Keeping calm turns complaints into loyalty... and maybe into something more intimate." Their gazes made my tiny cock throb in my thongs, pre-cum leaking as I crossed my legs, the shalwar rubbing my sensitive balls, my asshole clenching in shameful excitement.
Mr. Khan chuckled, his muscular arms crossing over his chest, the tattoo—a swirling pattern—flexing slightly, but I saw the tent in his pants, his 8-inch monster twitching at the thought of splitting my tight trans ass. "Good answer. Now, product knowledge: tell us about our latest collection. The Monsoon Fusion line."
I rattled off details I'd memorized from their website, my expressive eyes lighting up, my body shifting to let my dupatta slip further, teasing more cleavage. "It's inspired by Dhaka's rains—waterproof fabrics with embroidered motifs of lotuses and rivers, colors like deep blues and greens. Pieces like the asymmetrical kurtas that pair with palazzos, perfect for office or evenings. I've followed your brand on social media; the influencer collaborations are genius... imagine me modeling them for you, sirs, stripping layer by layer to show how they hug every curve."
They exchanged glances, impressed, but I could tell it wasn't just my words. Their eyes lingered on my figure, on the way the kameez clung to my narrow waist, on my long legs crossed in those heels, their crotches bulging harder, heavy breathing filling the room with musky arousal. Mr. Rahman's gaze was the hungriest, his cheeks flushing as he adjusted in his seat, his potbelly shifting, his 7-inch cock visibly throbbing. The room felt warmer, the air conditioning humming softly against the tension building, my own pre-cum soaking through now, a wet spot forming. Mr. Islam cleared his throat, his lean frame leaning back, his erection straining. "You're articulate, Nusrat. But sales is about more than talk. It's about presence."
Mr. Khan nodded, his sharp jawline tightening as he smiled, his hand brushing his bulge. "Exactly. Our store in Gulshan sees all kinds—business tycoons, housewives with deep pockets. You need to captivate... to make them hard, to make them want."
Mr. Rahman interjected, his voice dropping lower, thick with lust. "You're... quite the vision, Nusrat. Beauty like yours could sell anything. But we need to see if you're... flexible enough for the role—spread those legs and show us your slutty side." The others chuckled, a low, knowing sound that sent a twist through my stomach, but also a flood of heat to my cocklette, making it twitch and leak more. The air thickened, the sultry undertone unmistakable. My soft cheeks flushed, but the job was too good to walk away. Desperation mingled with a spark of something else—excitement, perhaps, at the power I held in their gazes, my full pouty lips parting, a forbidden wetness slicking my asshole as I whispered, "I'm flexible, Mr. Rahman. Whatever it takes to prove I'm the right fit—my body is yours to test, to use, to fuck if that's what you desire." I nodded, playing along, my pouty lips parting slightly, my nipples throbbing, cocklette dripping in anticipation.
He stood, his potbelly jiggling slightly as he moved to lock the door with a click that echoed. Then he dimmed the lights, casting the room in a soft glow from the windows, the bustling Dhanmondi streets below now a distant blur. "Let's make this interview more... interactive. Put on some music." He fiddled with his phone, and a sultry Bengali remix filled the room—slow beats with a hypnotic rhythm, the kind played at underground parties in Dhaka, blending traditional instruments with electronic bass that throbbed like a cock pulsing in my ass. The sound wrapped around us, pulsing like the city's heartbeat, making my pussy-ass clench rhythmically.
"Dance for us, Nusrat," Mr. Rahman said, his predatory eyes gleaming in the dim light of the interview room, sharp and hungry like a wolf sizing up its prey. His gravelly voice carried an undercurrent of command, laced with that unmistakable lust that made my skin prickle, my nipples harden further, my cocklette throb hard against my soaked thongs. "Show us your bold side. Strip while you do it. Impress us, and the job's yours."
The words hung in the air like a thick fog, heavy with coercion that twisted my stomach into knots, but also ignited a fire in my core. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, echoing the sultry Bengali remix pulsing from his phone—slow, hypnotic beats that wrapped around my body like invisible hands, urging me to move, to grind, to expose. Outside the glass walls, the bustling streets of Dhanmondi blurred into a hazy backdrop, the post-rain humidity seeping in despite the air conditioning, making everything feel stickier, more intense, sweat beading on my skin already. I knew this was wrong, a blatant abuse of power in this sleek office where deals were supposed to be made with words, not bodies. But desperation clawed at me—tuition bills stacking up like unpaid debts from my move from Sylhet, the tiny dorm room that felt more like a cage than a home. And beneath it all, a forbidden thrill sparked in my veins, hot and electric, the kind that made my full pouty lips part slightly in anticipation, my cocklette leaking pre-cum profusely now, soaking through to create a visible wet spot on my shalwar. I was beautiful, I knew that—my hourglass figure, my stunning features turning heads on Dhaka's crowded sidewalks where rickshaws honked and vendors shouted "Ei, sundori, ekta scarf kinun!"—hey, beautiful, buy a scarf! Here, in this room, that beauty could be my weapon, my ticket to stability, my trans body a secret allure that made me wetter, hornier. I swallowed hard, my smooth, slender throat bobbing, and decided to play along, my hands already trembling with excitement as I began to touch myself subtly.
I stood slowly, my white high-heel pumps clicking softly against the tiled floor, elongating my long, toned legs and accentuating the graceful sway of my wide, curvaceous hips, each step making my plump ass jiggle teasingly, my thongs riding up between my cheeks. The vibrant blue shalwar-kameez clung to my curves like a second skin, the fitted fabric whispering promises of what lay beneath, damp with sweat and arousal. I let the music guide me, closing my expressive almond-shaped eyes for a moment to feel the rhythm seep into my bones, the bass vibrating through my core, making my tight balls ache and my cocklette throb. My body began to sway seductively, hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles that made the shalwar pants rustle softly against my shapely thighs, the friction rubbing my leaking cocklette, pre-cum smearing inside my thongs. I raised my arms above my head, my long, dark hair cascading down my back in silky waves, brushing against my narrow waist like a lover's touch, my perky tits bouncing gently with each undulation, nipples scraping the fabric raw.
The men watched, transfixed, their chairs creaking as they shifted uncomfortably, hands diving into pants to stroke their hardening cocks openly now. Mr. Rahman's potbelly strained against his shirt, his sharp eyes locked on my undulating form, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple as he pumped his veiny 7-incher slowly, pre-cum slicking his palm. Mr. Islam's lean frame tensed behind his bespectacled gaze, his smug smile fading into parted lips, glasses fogging from the heat building in the room, his slim 6-inch cock twitching in his fist. Mr. Khan's muscular build coiled like a spring, his tattoo peeking from his collar as he leaned forward, warm brown eyes darkening with desire, his thick 8-inch monster leaking pre-cum as he jerked. Their breathing grew heavier, ragged, filling the space with a musky undertone that mingled with the faint scent of rain-soaked earth wafting from the cracked window—Dhaka's eternal humidity amplifying every sensation, every throb of my cocklette.
I danced closer, my elegant feet arching in the pumps, each step a deliberate tease that made my plump ass jiggle subtly beneath the fabric, my hands trailing down my sides, fingers grazing the soft rounded cheeks of my heart-shaped face, then lower, over my collarbones, drawing their eyes to the subtle flush creeping across my skin, my fingers circling my hardening nipples through the kameez, pinching lightly to make them throb. First, I focused on the dupatta, my fingers trailing the silk slowly, sensually, as if unwrapping a gift, letting it slide inch by inch, the fabric caressing my perky tits like a tongue lapping at my peaks. I let one end slip from my shoulder, the silk dragging over my rock-hard nipples, revealing how the fitted kameez hugged them tightly, the outline of my sensitive buds just beginning to harden further under the scrutiny, tenting the material like diamonds. I twirled, the dupatta swirling around me like a veil in a forbidden ritual, the air kissing my exposed neck, making goosebumps rise, before I let it flutter to the floor like a discarded scarf, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk. Now more exposed, the kameez clung even more intimately to my narrow waist, flaring out over my wide hips, accentuating the hourglass silhouette that had always been my secret pride, my cocklette straining harder, pre-cum dripping down my thigh inside the shalwar.
A soft moan escaped my lips—unintended, but the thrill of their gazes fueled it, my hand slipping lower to press against my crotch through the fabric, rubbing my throbbing cocklette subtly, edging myself as I ground my hips. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass wall's reflection, the Dhaka skyline a blurry canvas behind me: my almond-shaped eyes half-lidded with focus and budding arousal, thick lashes casting shadows; my delicate nose flaring slightly with each quickened breath; my full pouty lips, glossed in red, parting in a sultry smile that I directed at them, inviting their cocks. The music throbbed deeper, the bass vibrating through my core, making my tight balls shift subtly beneath my thongs, a private reminder of my confident femininity, my asshole puckering and leaking natural lube. I swayed my hips more provocatively, grinding against the air as if against an invisible partner, my long legs flexing in the heels, thighs rubbing together with a friction that sent tingles up my spine, my fingers dipping to trace my ass crack through the shalwar, teasing my hole.
My hands slid to the hem of my kameez next, fingers hooking under the fabric with deliberate slowness, lifting it inch by tantalizing inch, teasing them with glimpses of my smooth, taut midriff, the skin glowing under the dim lights, sweat beading and trickling down to my navel. The cool air of the room kissed my exposed flesh as I peeled it higher, over my lacy black bra that cupped my perky tits so perfectly, the lace straining against the supple mounds, my nipples peaking against the material, hardening into firm buds that begged for attention, throbbing with each heartbeat. I arched my back as I pulled the kameez over my head, the fabric whispering against my silky hair, my arms extending gracefully to let it drop beside the dupatta, my tits bouncing free in the bra, the movement making my cocklette leak more. Now half-bare, my narrow waist flared dramatically into curvaceous hips, the contrast making my figure even more intoxicating. I ran my hands over my exposed skin, tracing the curve of my small breasts, cupping them through the lace and squeezing, feeling the heat of their stares like physical touches, my thumbs circling my nipples until they ached, pre-cum flooding my thongs as Mr. Rahman groaned, his pre-cum flying from his stroking fist onto the floor.
The rhythm urged me on, my body glistening with a light sheen of sweat from the humid air and the building excitement, my hands dipping lower to rub my crotch openly now, touching my cocklette through the shalwar, moans escaping as I ground harder. I kicked into the next phase with fluid grace, my movements becoming more erotic, hips thrusting subtly as if inviting them closer, my fingers hooking into the drawstring. I turned my back to them for a moment, letting them admire the sway of my plump ass, the way it jiggled with each twirl, promising softness and yield, my hands reaching back to spank my own cheeks lightly, the slap echoing, making my hole twitch. Facing them again, I untied the drawstring of my shalwar with deliberate slowness, my fingers trembling just a bit—not from fear, but from the electric anticipation coursing through me, my cocklette throbbing visibly now against the fabric. The knot loosened, and I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, shimmying the pants down my wide hips inch by tantalizing inch, the fabric clinging for a moment, as if reluctant to reveal, teasing glimpses of my lacy thongs soaked with pre-cum, before pooling at my shapely thighs, sliding sensually down my long, toned legs like a lover's caress, the air hitting my damp skin and making my tight balls draw up. I stepped out gracefully, one elegant foot at a time, the high heels making my calves flex alluringly, my plump ass now fully on display except for the thin strip of my thongs nestled between the rounded cheeks, the wet spot obvious, my cocklette tenting the lace obscenely.
Now in just my lacy bra, thongs, and high heels, I felt exposed yet empowered, my body a canvas of desire. I twirled again, my plump ass jiggling with each spin, the room's musky aroma thickening with their arousal—sweat, cologne, and raw want blending into an intoxicating haze that mirrored the faint rain scent from outside, my hands roaming freely now, one cupping my tit and pinching the nipple through lace, the other slipping into my thongs to stroke my cocklette lightly, pre-cum coating my fingers as I moaned louder. My 3½-inch cock stirred fully now, hard from the thrill, my tight balls drawing up in response to the cool air and heated gazes. I ran my hands over my curves, cupping my perky tits through the bra, pinching lightly to make my nipples throb, then down to my narrow waist, hips swaying hypnotically, my finger dipping back to circle my asshole through the thong string, teasing penetration.
"Remove the panties, but keep the heels," Mr. Rahman ordered, his voice husky, thick with desire, breaking the spell just enough to heighten it, his fist pumping faster on his leaking cock.
I hesitated, my soft rounded cheeks flushing deeper, knowing what this would reveal—my secret, the part of me that added to my feminine confidence but could shatter illusions, my cocklette throbbing harder at the thought. But the music pulsed on, the men's eyes burned with need, and that forbidden thrill won out, my asshole leaking more. I complied, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of the thongs, sliding them down slowly, teasingly, over my wide hips and shapely thighs, the lace peeling away from my sticky cocklette with a wet sound. The fabric peeled away, and my 3½-inch cock sprang free, fully erect now from the thrill, veiny and throbbing, bobbing slightly as my smooth balls hung below, exposed in the dim light, pre-cum drooling from the tip and splattering the floor.
The room went silent, a heavy pause that stretched like the humid air outside, then it erupted in a cacophony of shock and mockery. Mr. Islam's lean face twisted, his bespectacled eyes widening behind the lenses as he spat out, "What the fuck? She's a freak! A hijra with a tiny dick?" His voice cracked with disgust, his smug smile replaced by a sneer that made his thin lips curl. He leaned back in his chair, but his gaze was locked on my exposed crotch, a mix of revulsion and something darker flickering in his eyes—they burned with judgment, yet his slim 6-inch cock throbbed harder in his hand, pre-cum leaking as he stroked.
Mr. Khan laughed cruelly, a deep, rumbling sound from his muscular chest, his tattoo shifting as he slapped his knee. "Look at that pathetic clitty twitching like a desperate worm, and those smooth little balls begging to be crushed—you're no woman, you're a disgusting tranny whore." His words hit like slaps, sharp and unfiltered, his sharp jawline tightening as he shook his head, but I saw the way his pants tented further, his 8-inch monster leaking pre-cum, his arousal betraying the venom, his fist pumping faster.
Mr. Rahman joined in, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the dim light as he chuckled, his potbelly heaving. "Filthy little cock-slut pretending to be pretty. But damn, that ass... too sexy to waste, that plump jiggling boy-pussy and hard clitty too fuckable." His predatory eyes roamed over my plump, jiggling ass, then back to my 3½-inch cock, fully erect and twitching slightly from the exposure, my smooth balls tightening under their stares. The abusive barbs flew—"shemale bitch," "futanari trash," "dick-girl freak," "pathetic trans cum-rag"—each one stinging like salt on raw skin, but beneath the humiliation, a twisted heat built in my core, my cocklette betraying me, hardening fully to its 3½ inches, pre-cum drooling as my asshole clenched, craving their cocks despite the shame, the degradation making my pussy-ass leak slick juices, my nipples throbbing harder. My heart-shaped face flushed deeper, my soft rounded cheeks burning, but I stood there in my high heels, my long legs steady, refusing to crumble, my body on fire with masochistic thrill—I was their trans cum-dump now, and it made me wetter.
Their words hung in the air, thick as the remix's bass, but Mr. Rahman's lust won out. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping back, and unzipped his pants with a deliberate slowness, his thick, veiny 7-inch cock flopping out, already hard and curving slightly upward, the head glistening with pre-cum, veins pulsing like ropes begging to stretch me. "Shut up, boys. This slut's too hot to pass up. On your knees, Nusrat." His gravelly voice was commanding, laced with hunger, his potbelly heaving as he stroked his monster.
Trembling but aroused by the degradation, my cocklette dripping steadily, I dropped to my knees, the carpet rough against my skin, my heels digging in for balance, my plump ass jiggling as I settled. My long hair fell forward, framing my face as he grabbed a fistful of it, yanking my head back to meet his gaze. My expressive almond-shaped eyes met his, thick lashes fluttering as he forced my red lips around his cock. The salty taste hit me immediately, his pre-cum coating my tongue as I sucked eagerly, my pouty lips stretching around his girth, tongue swirling the veiny underside. He thrust deep, not giving me time to adjust, his hips bucking to throat-fuck me roughly. Thrust. Gag. Thrust. The head hit the back of my throat, gagging me until tears streamed down my cheeks, smearing my smoky makeup, snot bubbling from my nose. "Take it, you trans whore," he growled, his free hand slapping my face lightly before spitting on my cheek, the warm glob sliding down my smooth throat, mixing with my tears.
I moaned around his shaft, the vibration making him groan, my own tiny cock throbbing harder between my legs, my tight balls aching from neglect, pre-cum pooling on the carpet below me. He pulled my hair tighter, controlling the pace, his potbelly brushing my forehead with each deep plunge, thrust-slap-thrust, his balls smacking my chin. The music pulsed on, masking my gurgles and his grunts, the room's glass walls fogging slightly from our heat. The others watched, Mr. Islam adjusting his glasses as he stroked himself through his pants, pre-cum staining, Mr. Khan's muscular arms flexing as he did the same, their eyes on my stretched lips.
Mr. Rahman pulled out with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his tip, dripping down my chin onto my heaving tits. He groped my small tits through the lacy bra, his thick fingers squeezing the supple flesh, twisting my sensitive nipples hard through the fabric—tits torture that sent jolts of pain-pleasure straight to my core, my nipples throbbing like mini-cocks. I whimpered, arching my back, my narrow waist curving as he ripped the bra off in one yank, the straps snapping against my skin. My perky breasts bounced free, nipples hardening into taut peaks under his assault, red and swollen. He pinched and slapped them until they reddened further, the skin flushing hot, slaps echoing. "Such pretty little tits for a dick-girl," he muttered, his spit landing on one nipple in a thick glob before he leaned down to suck it roughly, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, biting down hard enough to make me cry out, pain blooming into ecstasy, my cocklette leaking rivers now.
Then his hand dipped lower, two thick digits probing my tight asshole, pushing past the ring of muscle with no warning, the burn immediate, stretching me as he scissored his fingers roughly. He spat into my open mouth, the glob hitting my tongue. "Swallow it, slut." I did, the humiliation fueling the slick heat building inside me, my 3½-inch cock leaking a bead of pre-cum that dripped onto the carpet, my walls clenching around his fingers as he curled them to brush my prostate, making me gasp and buck, pre-cum spurting weakly from my cocklette in a mini-orgasm, waves of sissy bliss teasing but not satisfying.
Midway through his fingering, his fingers curling relentlessly to milk my prostate, pre-cum dribbling from my cocklette in steady drops, he waved the others over with his free hand. "Join in, lads. This bitch is ours." Mr. Islam and Mr. Khan stripped quickly, their clothes hitting the floor in heaps. Mr. Islam's cock sprang free—6 inches, slim and curved, veiny with a flushed head, pre-cum beading. Mr. Khan's was a thick 8-inch monster, straight and heavy, throbbing with veins bulging along its length, slick with arousal. They surrounded me in a gangbang frenzy, the air thick with their musk and the remix's rhythm, sweat and pre-cum scent heavy.
First, they bent me over the long table, my hands splaying on the cool surface for support, my perky tits flattening against the wood, nipples scraping painfully-pleasurably. Mr. Rahman positioned himself behind me, his hands gripping my wide hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he aligned his thick tip with my puckered entrance. He spat on my hole for extra slickness, a thick glob hitting and dripping down, then pushed in roughly, the head breaching me with a sharp sting that made me cry out, pop-stretch-burn as my ring gripped him. "Fuck, your ass is tight," he grunted, inching deeper, his veiny shaft stretching my walls inch by inch, veins dragging against my clenching insides until his balls slapped against mine, the fullness overwhelming, pain blooming into pleasure as he started thrusting, slow at first to let me adjust, grinding deep, then building to a brutal pace. Thrust. Slap. Thrust. His hips slammed against my plump ass, the jiggle sending ripples through my body, my long legs trembling in the heels, each pound hitting my prostate, making stars explode behind my eyes, pre-cum farting out with each pull-back.
"Fuck me harder, you bastard," I moaned, the words spilling out unbidden, my voice husky with need, my cocklette swinging and leaking below. He obliged, pounding my tight hole raw, each thrust hitting deep, rough anal sex that had my body jolting forward, wet squelches filling the room, his pre-cum mixing with my ass-juices. "Your boy-pussy's gripping like a vice, even with that clitty dangling," he taunted, reaching around to slap my semi-hard cock lightly, making it bounce and throb, pre-cum flying.
Mr. Islam moved in front, grabbing my long hair to tilt my head up, his slim cock pressing against my lips. "Open up, tranny slut." I parted my full lips, and he forced his dick down my throat, throat-fucking in sync with Rahman's rhythm, the two of them spit-roasting me over the table. Thrust-gag-thrust. His curved shaft hit the back of my mouth, making me gag, saliva dripping down my chin onto my heaving tits, bubbling out with each plunge. Mr. Khan stood beside us, his thick hand wrapping around my tight sack, squeezing my smooth balls with just enough pressure to edge the line between pain and ecstasy, twisting them cruelly. "Shit, these are pathetic," he laughed, slapping my 3½-inch shaft until it throbbed, pre-cum leaking steadily, but he stopped short of letting me cum, his fingers teasing the sensitive underside, stroking lightly then pulling away, my body quaking in denial.
They kept this up for what felt like ages, the table creaking under the force, my body a vessel for their lust, thrust-slap-gag-squeeze, my ass clenching rhythmically, prostate milked until I shattered— a hands-free prostate orgasm ripping through me, my cocklette spurting weak ropes of trans cum onto the table, waves of ecstasy making my walls flutter around Rahman's cock, but they weren’t done, stopping themselves, pulling back when close. Rahman's thrusts grew erratic, his grunts louder, sweat slicking his potbelly as it pressed against my back. "Take every inch, you whore," he snarled, his fingers bruising my hips. Islam's throat-fucks were relentless, his slim cock sliding deep, cutting off my air in rhythmic bursts that left me dizzy, spit and snot mixing. Khan's torture on my cock and balls intensified—twisting, pulling, slapping—building me to the edge again only to pull back, my tiny dick quivering in frustration, another orgasm teasing but denied.
Finally, they switched, pulling out with wet sounds that echoed in the room, my hole gaping and leaking. Mr. Khan lay back on the floor, his muscular body sprawling, tattoo glistening with sweat as he pulled me toward him. "Straddle me, facing away, slut," he commanded, guiding me to hover over his lap, my plump ass cheeks spreading as I lowered onto his massive cock, the thick head pressing against my stretched hole. The burn was fiercer this time, his girth splitting me wider as I sank down inch by inch, gravity aiding the impalement, stretch-burn-fill until he was buried to the hilt, veins pulsing against my walls. "Fuck, that's good," he groaned, his hands groping my wide hips, fingers sinking into the curvaceous flesh as he spanked my ass hard, the slap echoing like a crack, sting blooming into heat.
I bounced my plump ass up and down, my long legs spread wide in the heels for leverage, the pumps digging into the carpet, each rise and fall sending his cock grinding against my prostate, waves of ecstasy rippling through me, wet slaps and squelches loud. Bounce. Grind. Bounce. "Shit, your cock is stretching my boy-pussy wide," I gasped, my voice breaking as he thrust up to meet me, his hips slamming upward, balls smacking my tight ones. He spanked again, the sting blooming into heat, his palms leaving red marks on my jiggling cheeks, alternating with spits that landed on my back, trickling down to lube the slide.
Mr. Rahman knelt in front, his 7-inch cock still slick from my ass, shoving it into my mouth for another throat-fuck. I sucked greedily, my tongue swirling around the veiny length, tasting my ass on him as he face-fucked me deep. "Suck it clean, you filthy bitch," he ordered, his hand in my hair controlling the depth, thrust-gag-thrust. Mr. Islam joined the torment, his fingers dipping to my balls, twisting them cruelly while spitting sloppily on Mr. Khan's shaft where it disappeared into me, the extra lube making the slides even slicker, wet sounds filling the air, his other hand slapping my leaking cocklette.
The position dragged on, my body aching deliciously, sweat beading on my narrow waist and trickling down my back, Khan's thick cock pounding relentlessly, each bounce making my small tits heave, nipples still sore from earlier abuse, throbbing. Rahman's throat-fucks grew rougher, his pre-cum flooding my mouth as I swallowed around him, gagging. Islam's twists on my balls sent sharp pangs that mixed with the pleasure, edging me closer but never over, until another orgasm built—prostate-milked bliss exploding, my cocklette squirting sissy cum onto the floor in weak spurts, my walls clenching around Khan, but they held back, denying their own releases.
They shifted again, the transition fluid but deliberate. Mr. Islam hauled me up, pressing my back against the cool glass wall overlooking the streets. "Lift your leg, whore," he said, hooking one of my long legs over his shoulder, the high heel dangling as he exposed me fully, my shapely thigh trembling against his lean frame. The position made me the perfect height for him to thrust into my ass standing up. He aligned his slim, curved cock and pushed in slowly at first, savoring the stretch, the curve hitting my prostate at a new angle, then built to pounding deep, rough sex that made my body jolt against the glass. Thrust. Slam. Thrust. The wall vibrated with each slam, my plump ass flattening against it, wet squelches echoing. "Fuck, yes, pound my ass," I moaned, my hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in, pre-cum from my cocklette smearing his shirt.
His thrusts were frantic, his bespectacled face close to mine, breath hot on my neck as he grunted, "Take it, you sissy cock-slut," his curve grinding deep, milking my prostate relentlessly. The others took turns groping—Rahman's thick fingers pinching my nipples anew, twisting the taut buds until I whimpered, pain shooting to my core; Khan's muscular hand finding my cock before edging it with feather-light strokes along the shaft, his thumb circling the head, building pressure. "Don't cum, you sissy. Beg for it," Khan taunted, his touch maddeningly light, building the pressure in my tight balls without release, slaps to my balls sending stings.
The standing fuck seemed endless, my leg aching from the hook over his shoulder, but the pleasure overrode it, Islam's curved cock ground deep, the angle allowing him to hit spots that made my 3½-inch dick leak steadily, pre-cum dripping down my thigh, another wave build-up until I begged, "Please, let me cum," my voice ragged, but they just laughed, denying me, pulling back as my body quivered on the brink.
When Islam's pace faltered, they moved me again, this time to Mr. Rahman's desk. He cleared it with a sweep of his arm, papers scattering, then sat on the edge, pulling me to straddle his lap facing him. "Ride me, slut," he growled, guiding my narrow waist as I positioned myself over his thick cock. I sank down anally, the familiar stretch burning anew as his veiny 7-inch length filled me, my plump ass settling against his thighs, full-deep-full. I started riding forward, my hips rolling in a slow grind at first, building to fervent bounces, my long legs braced on either side on the knees for leverage, bounce-grind-bounce, his cock dragging my walls.
He leaned in, sucking my tits roughly, his mouth latching onto one sensitive nipple, teeth biting down just enough to make me arch and moan. "Bite harder, fuck," I gasped, the pain shooting straight to my core as he alternated between the pert buds, leaving them slick and throbbing, biting-pulling-sucking, my nipples red and swollen. The others stood on either side of the desk; I reached out, wrapping my hands around their cocks—Mr. Islam's slim, curved one in my left, Mr. Khan's thick monster in my right. I jerked them in rhythm with my rides, my fingers stroking the veiny lengths, thumbs rubbing the heads, pre-cum slicking my palms.
Alternating blowjobs, I turned to suck Islam deep first, my pouty lips engulfing his cock, tongue tracing the curve as I bobbed, throat relaxing to take him fully. "Suck my cock, yeah like that," he groaned, his hand in my hair. Then I switched to Khan, my mouth stretching wide around his girth, sucking sloppily while stroking Islam, gag-suck-gag. The desk creaked under us, Rahman's bites on my nipples intensifying, his hips thrusting up to meet my descends, pounding deep, my own cock bouncing with each movement, untouched but throbbing, balls tight with denied release, the pleasure building until another orgasm hit—weak spurts from my cocklette, pleasure teasing but incomplete.
This went on, the rides growing frenzied, my body slick with sweat, until Rahman finally pulled back from my tits, his breath ragged.
They eased me off the desk, my legs wobbling slightly in the high heels as Mr. Khan guided me to the nearby couch, his muscular hand firm on my narrow waist. He sat first, pulling me down to lie on my side in front of him, spooning from behind. My back pressed against his sweaty chest, his tattoo brushing my shoulder as he lifted one of my shapely thighs high, draping it over his arm to expose my stretched asshole. His thick 8-inch cock, still slick and throbbing, aligned with my entrance, the head nudging insistently before he pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, stretch-fill-stretch, his girth making me whimper. The angle allowed him to slide deep, filling me anew, the burn reigniting as my walls clenched around him.
"Fuck, your boy-pussy is like a glove," he growled into my ear, his breath hot on my smooth throat, starting with shallow thrusts that ground against my prostate, building waves of pleasure that made my 3½-inch cock twitch and leak, pre-cum dripping. He built the pace gradually, his hips rolling in a deliberate rhythm, thrust-grind-thrust, each push sending my plump ass rippling against his pelvis, wet slaps loud. I moaned, my long hair splayed across the couch cushions, my heart-shaped face turning to glance back at him, my expressive eyes half-lidded with lust, lips parted.
Mr. Rahman knelt in front of us on the couch, his potbelly heaving as he positioned his 7-inch cock at my lips. "Open wide, slut," he commanded, and I did, my pouty lips parting to take him in. He throat-fucked me steadily, his hands gripping my head, fingers tangling in my silky waves as he pushed deep, the veiny shaft sliding down my throat, gag-thrust-gag. Meanwhile, his free hand reached down, fingering my hole around Khan's cock, his thick digits probing the stretched rim, adding extra pressure that made me whimper around his dick, the double stretch burning deliciously. "Feel that, you whore? Stretching you wider," he grunted, fingers scissoring.
Spits and slaps rained down; Khan's hand came down on my raised thigh, the smack echoing as he thrust harder, his pace quickening to rough, pounding strokes that jolted my body, slam-slap-slam. "Shit, pound my ass deeper," I gasped when Rahman pulled out briefly to let me breathe, saliva dripping from my chin. Khan obliged, his muscular arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me back onto him with each slam, his balls slapping against mine, pre-cum and ass-juices farting out. Rahman spat on my face, the warm glob hitting my soft cheek before he shoved back in, throat-fucking with renewed vigor. They tortured my balls too—Rahman's fingers pulling at my tight sack, stretching the smooth skin while Khan slapped them lightly from behind, the sharp stings mixing with the fullness inside me, abusing me relentlessly.
The spooning fuck dragged on, minutes blending as sweat slicked our bodies, the couch creaking under the force, Khan's thrusts growing erratic, his grunts louder, but he held back, denying himself as much as me, my perky tits heaving with each movement, nipples still sensitive and red from earlier bites. "Don't stop, fuck me like the slut I am," I begged, my voice muffled around Rahman's cock. They laughed, the degradation fueling the fire, spits landing on my exposed skin—Rahman aiming for my tits, the glob dripping down my throbbing nipples; Khan for my shoulder, slicking the skin. The build-up peaked in another orgasm for me—prostate bliss exploding, my cocklette squirting sissy cum in arcs, walls fluttering, but they denied their own, pulling back.
When they finally shifted, it was seamless; Khan pulled out, leaving me empty and aching, gaping and leaking, and they maneuvered me onto the floor in a new setup. Mr. Islam and Mr. Khan lifted my long legs high, holding them like handles as I supported myself on my hands, my body inverted in a wheelbarrow position, my plump ass up and exposed, hole winking. Mr. Islam positioned himself behind me, his lean frame kneeling as he gripped my hips, his slim 6-inch cock pressing against my hole. He thrust in with a grunt, the curved shape hitting deep from this angle, gravity pulling him further as he started pounding, rough and relentless, thrust-slam-thrust. "Take it all, you tranny bitch," he snarled, his bespectacled face focused, sweat dripping from his brow, the curve milking my prostate hard.
My arms trembled on the carpet, my high heels pointing skyward as they held my legs spread wide, my shapely thighs quivering, pre-cum from my dangling cocklette dripping onto my belly. My 3½-inch cock dangled freely below, exposed and leaking, and Mr. Khan crept below to take advantage, his mouth descending to suck it teasingly. His lips wrapped around my tiny shaft, tongue swirling the head, bringing me to the brink with slow, deliberate sucks, hot-wet-suck, then pulling back just as I neared release, his sharp jawline brushing my balls as he lapped at them next, the wet heat making me buck, tongue probing my sack.
Mr. Rahman hovered nearby, his hands everywhere—groping my heaving tits, pinching the taut nipples hard; kissing my upside-down face roughly, his tongue invading my mouth before pulling away to spit into it, the glob hitting my tongue. "Swallow, cock-whore." I did, the humiliation spiking my arousal as Islam's thrusts hammered on, each one jolting my body, the wheelbarrow angle allowing deeper penetration that grazed my prostate relentlessly, grind-hit-grind. "Fuck, your curved cock is hitting so deep," I moaned, my voice echoing off the walls. Khan's ministrations continued, his mouth alternating between sucking my dick and balls, bringing me to the edge over and over, suck-pull-suck, my tight sack aching with pent-up need, another orgasm dribbling out weakly.
The position tested my endurance, my arms burning, but the pleasure was intoxicating, their hands firm on my legs keeping me steady, Islam's pace building to a frenzy, his grunts mixing with the wet slaps of skin, but they weren't done yet, denying climaxes.
They lowered me gently, only to bend me over again, this time with Mr. Rahman in front and Mr. Khan behind, forming a bridge over me. I sucked Rahman's thick cock eagerly, my lips stretching around it as I bobbed deep, throat relaxing to take him fully, my tongue tracing the veins, suck-gag-suck. "Suck harder, you filthy shemale," he groaned, his hand in my hair guiding the depth. From behind, Khan railed my ass doggy-style once more, his massive 8-inch cock slamming in with brutal force, each thrust pushing me forward onto Rahman's dick, thrust-push-thrust. They high-fived over me, laughing like I was their toy, the Eiffel Tower setup intensifying the group dynamic, their cocks syncing in me.
Mr. Islam joined the abuse, his hand spanking my plump ass as Khan pounded, the slaps alternating with spits that landed on my back, trickling down to my hole. "Take our cocks, you trans slut," Islam taunted, his fingers occasionally reaching under to twist my balls, adding to the torment, pull-twist-pull. The verbal barbs flew—"dick-girl whore," "ass-fucked freak," "pathetic clitty bitch"—each one stoking the fire as Khan's hips slapped against me, his girth stretching me wide, grinding deep, veins dragging my walls. Rahman's throat-fucks synced perfectly, cutting off my moans, saliva bubbling from my lips, the degradation building another acme, my cocklette throbbing untouched.
This went on, the doggy railing building tension, my body a conduit for their lust, until they flipped me onto my back on the floor for the next escalation. They folded my legs up over my head, my high heels nearly touching the carpet behind me, my ass lifted high in a pile-driver position, hole exposed and gaping. Mr. Rahman straddled me from above, his potbelly pressing down as he aligned his 7-inch cock with my upturned hole, pushing in with gravity's aid, the depth immediate and overwhelming, plunge-deep-plunge. "Fuck, this is deep," I cried out, the angle allowing him to pile-drive straight down, each thrust hammering my prostate with brutal precision, pain and ecstasy blurring, slam-hit-slam.
The others jerked their cocks over me, edging themselves as they watched, pre-cum dripping onto my body, splattering my tits. Mr. Khan improvised torture on my tits, grabbing paper clips from Rahman's desk and clamping them onto my sensitive nipples, the sharp pinch making me arch and whimper, clamp-twist-clamp. "Scream for it, bitch," he said, twisting the clips slightly for extra agony, pain radiating. Mr. Islam took the upside-down throat-fuck, kneeling by my head and shoving his curved cock into my mouth, the position awkward but intense, his shaft sliding deep as gravity pulled my throat open, gag-deep-gag.
Rahman's pile-drives were ruthless, his grunts echoing as sweat dripped from him onto my face, mixing with Islam's spits, the clamps on my nipples sending constant throbs of pain-pleasure. "Shit, your cock is destroying my boy-pussy," I gasped between throat-fucks, another orgasm building from the prostate hammering, my cocklette spurting hands-free this time, ropes of cum hitting my own face, waves shuddering through me. They kept this up, the intensity peaking, my body folded and used, until the final push.
For the climax, they lubed up with more spit—Rahman lying back on the floor, pulling me to straddle him facing forward, my narrow waist in his grip as I sank onto his thick cock, the stretch familiar now, full-deep-full. "Ride me slow, slut," he ordered, Mr. Islam moved in from the front, kneeling and angling his slim cock to press against my already-filled hole. "Double time, whore," he said, pushing in alongside Rahman, the double penetration stretching me impossibly wide, burn-tear-fill, the two cocks grinding together inside me, Rahman's girth against Islam's curve creating friction that hit every nerve, stretch-grind-stretch.
"Fuck, you're stuffing my trans hole so full," I moaned, the two cocks grinding inside, friction milking my prostate double-time, wet squelches loud as they thrust in unison at first, then alternated, the sensations overwhelming—stretching, grinding, filling—as spits and slaps continued, my balls tortured with pulls and twists, pull-slap-pull. Mr. Khan face-fucked me from the side, his thick monster shoving down my throat, completing the gangbang peak, gag-thrust-gag. The DP dragged, minutes of raw, rough action, my body quaking, the double stretch building to my biggest orgasm yet—full-body shudder, my cocklette erupting in thick ropes, sissy squirt splattering as they double-fucked me senseless, walls spasming around them.
The DP dragged on, an eternity of raw, unrelenting ecstasy that blurred the lines between pain and pleasure in the dim glow of the interview room. Mr. Rahman and Mr. Islam's cocks filled me completely, their veiny shafts grinding against each other inside my stretched trans hole, creating a friction that sent electric shocks through my core with every synced thrust. Deeper. Harder. Faster. The office, once a symbol of professional ambition in bustling Dhanmondi, now felt like a secret den of forbidden desires—glass walls fogged with our collective sweat, the distant honks of Dhaka's chaotic traffic a faint reminder of the conservative world outside, where trans women like me navigated shadows of judgment and hidden yearnings. My body quaked, my perky tits heaving with each pound, nipples still raw from earlier torture, throbbing like beacons of my submission. Pre-cum and ass-juices leaked out in slick rivulets, dripping down my shapely thighs, pooling on the floor beneath us, the wet squelches echoing like obscene whispers in the humid air.
Mr. Rahman grunted from below, his potbelly slick against my back as he gripped my narrow waist tighter, his gravelly voice cutting through the remix's throbbing bass. "Fuck, your boy-pussy's swallowing us whole, you greedy shemale slut. Feel that stretch? That's what you were made for—taking real men's cocks, not that pathetic clitty of yours." His words stung, fueling the humiliation that made my 3½-inch cocklette throb harder, leaking steadily despite the neglect. Mr. Islam, thrusting from the front, his lean frame slamming into my plump ass with precision, added his own taunt, his bespectacled eyes gleaming with smug dominance. "Yeah, clench tighter, tranny whore. Your hole's milking us like a desperate cum-vacuum. Beg for more, Nusrat—tell us how much you love being double-stuffed in this fancy office, while the city pretends to be pious." I moaned, my voice ragged and broken, "Yes, sirs... stretch me wider, fuck my trans hole raw... I need it, please, don't stop!" My expressive almond-shaped eyes fluttered, tears of overwhelm mixing with sweat on my heart-shaped face, my full pouty lips parted in gasps. Mr. Khan, face-fucking me relentlessly from the side, his thick 8-inch monster bulging my throat with each gag-inducing plunge, laughed deeply. "Listen to her—our little dick-girl freak, craving destruction. Smack that clitty around, boys; make her squirt like the sissy she is."
The exertion had us all on the brink, my tight balls aching with pent-up need, their cocks pulsing inside me, pre-cum flooding my insides. I thought back to my life in Sylhet—the simple joys of family meals, the green hills where I'd first explored my femininity in secret, dressing in my sister's clothes and touching myself to forbidden fantasies. Moving to Dhaka had amplified everything: the city's vibrant chaos, the fashion world's allure with its fusion of tradition and modernity, and now this—my body defiled in a high-end office, my secret trans allure turning desperation into power. Finally, they pulled out with wet pops, my hole gaping and twitching, leaking their mixed fluids down my legs. They surrounded me as I dropped to my knees, the carpet rough against my skin, my high heels digging in for balance, my long, dark hair matted with sweat.
Prolonged exposure had built us all to explosive heights; they stroked furiously, their cocks—Rahman's veiny 7-incher, Islam's curved 6-inch slim rod, Khan's massive 8-inch beast—aimed at me like weapons of conquest. "Open wide, cum-dump," Rahman commanded, his predatory eyes locked on my flushed face. I parted my red lips obediently, tongue out, craving the degradation. Bukkake exploded in a symphony of grunts and hot ropes—thick, sticky cum splattering my face, tits, and hair, the warmth seeping into my skin like a branding. It triggered my final, shuddering climax, waves of humiliation-fueled bliss ripping through me, my cocklette erupting hands-free in weak but intense spurts, more trans cum puddling between my heels on the floor. Mr. Rahman's load hit my lips first, ropes landing on my tongue; I swallowed greedily what I could, the salty, thick, bitter taste flooding my mouth, coating my throat like a reward for my submission. "That's it, swallow my seed, you filthy hijra," he growled, milking the last drops. Mr. Islam aimed for my eyes, his warm spurts blinding me temporarily, the viscous fluid sticking my thick lashes together, dripping down my soft rounded cheeks as he sneered, "Blind you with my cum, freak—now you see only through our lust." Mr. Khan coated my perky tits, his thick, heavy loads dripping down the supple mounds, marking me completely, pooling in my navel like a sticky reservoir. "Your tits look better painted, tranny whore," he taunted, smearing it with his thumb, the sensation making my sensitive nipples throb anew.
Panting heavily, our bodies glistening in the afterglow, they slumped back into their chairs, zipping up with satisfied smirks, the room reeking of sex—musk, cum, sweat mingling with the faint rain scent from outside. "Clean up in my private washroom, slut," Rahman ordered, gesturing to a door at the back, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled, potbelly heaving. "Don't take too long—we've got business to wrap." I nodded weakly, my legs wobbling as I stood, cum dripping from my face and body, my asshole still leaking down my thighs, a slick trail marking my path. The washroom was sleek, marble-tiled like the rest of the LuxeThreads office, a stark contrast to my cramped dorm—mirrors reflecting my defiled beauty, the cool air conditioning a relief against my heated skin.
I turned on the faucet, the cool water cascading over my hands as I splashed my face, washing off the bukkake layers, the sticky remnants swirling down the drain. But I couldn't resist the lingering thrill—my fingers trailed down, dipping into my gaping asshole, scooping out their mixed loads, the warm, viscous cum on my fingertips. I brought it to my lips, tasting it slowly, salty and musky with hints of each man's essence—Rahman's earthy bitterness, Islam's sharp tang, Khan's thick richness. My cocklette twitched again, semi-hard despite the exhaustion, a forbidden rush coursing through me. Who was I now? The ambitious student from Sylhet, chasing fashion dreams in Dhaka's elite circles, or this empowered trans slut, using her body to climb? The city's contradictions mirrored my own—vibrant markets selling modest attire next to underground clubs where desires ran free. I reapplied my makeup with trembling hands, fresh smoky eyes enhancing my almond-shaped gaze, red gloss on my full pouty lips, making them look even more inviting. Dressed again in my sleek blue shalwar-kameez, the fabric clinging to my still-damp curves, my body sore but buzzing with aftershocks, asshole throbbing and leaking subtly down my thighs, soaking my thongs anew.
Back in the room, the men had composed themselves, ties straightened, but their eyes still hungered. Mr. Rahman grinned, leaning back in his chair, his predatory gaze appraising me. "Well, Nusrat, that was quite the interview. You're hired as a Sales Assistant—45,000 BDT per month, plus two Eid bonuses and one performance bonus. That's Assistant Store Manager pay, thanks to your... exceptional performance." He winked, his voice dripping with innuendo. The others smirked, Mr. Islam adjusting his glasses with a smug nod, "You'll fit right in—our Gulshan outlet needs someone as... accommodating as you." Mr. Khan chuckled, his muscular frame relaxed, tattoo peeking. "Indeed. Welcome to the team, slut. Don't disappoint."
Mr. Khan offered to walk me out, his hand possessively on my lower back, fingers brushing my plump ass through the fabric, sending shivers up my spine. As we navigated the office corridors—employees typing away, oblivious to the debauchery—the air hummed with post-rain freshness, Dhaka's skyline visible through windows. "If you're as flexible in the showroom as you were here, Nusrat," he murmured close to my ear, his warm breath tickling, "you'll rake in cash for us—and bonuses, promotions for you in the coming months. Maybe even private fittings with VIPs... or us." His fingers squeezed my ass cheek subtly, a promise of more. I nodded, my voice husky, "I'll be whatever the job requires, sir. My body... my allure... it's all for LuxeThreads now." Stepping into the Dhaka heat, the sun beating down on crowded streets, rickshaws weaving through traffic, my secret allure felt like a weapon—empowering in this city of contrasts, where tradition clashed with hidden passions.
In the rickshaw home, the driver pedaling through puddles, vendors shouting offers of fresh fruits and scarves, I couldn't hold back. The memories flooded me—thrusts, slaps, cum—my hand slipping under my shalwar discreetly, stroking my cocklette through the sticky thongs, the friction building fast. I bit my lip, stifling moans as the city blurred by, climaxing hard to thoughts of future fucks at the store: bent over racks in the backroom, servicing customers under counters, my trans body defiled again and again in conservative Dhaka, craving more, the thrill endless. Cum stained the seat, warm and secret, as I leaned back, buzzing with anticipation for what came next.
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