M𝐢r𝐚’𝐬 𝐖a𝐫e𝐡o𝐮s𝐞 𝐖r𝐚n𝐠l𝐞: C𝐮m, 𝐂h𝐫o𝐦e, 𝐚n𝐝 𝐊i𝐜k𝐢n𝐠 𝐀s𝐬

The afternoon sun’s a relentless bastard, baking the cracked asphalt of Jack’s Used Cars into a shimmering haze. I’m leaning against a rusted Civic, my white blouse clinging to my small, perky tits, no bra to tame them, so my nipples poke at the thin fabric like little rebels. My plaid mini skirt rides high, hugging my plump, juicy ass, barely covering my shapely thighs, and my black thongs keep my tiny cock and balls tucked tight, a secret pressed against my pale ivory skin. My slingbacks click softly as I shift my weight, my dark, wavy hair bouncing past my shoulders, catching the light as I scroll my iPhone, waiting for this shift to fucking end. I’m Mira, 18, 5’6”, 125 pounds of wildfire—a trans girl who’s been owning this body for two years, with brown eyes that glint under long lashes, a heart-shaped face carved with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full, pouty lips glossy with a hint of pink, ready to spit venom or suck cock, depending on the mood.

Jack’s lot is a graveyard of overpriced junkers, each one polished just enough to fool some sucker into thinking it’s “vintage.” I’ve been working here for months, learning the car game, saving up to flip my own rides. My silver BMW E21, parked across the lot, is proof I’m no rookie—turned that junkyard heap into a sleek beast with Pete’s help, and now it’s pulling offers left and right. My latest hustle—a black Mustang and red Corvette I snagged cheap at an auction, thanks to a quick, dirty fuck with the auctioneer—netted me a fat stack, even after Pete’s cut for the rebuild. Those TikToks I posted, grinding my juicy ass on the Mustang’s hood, my perky tits jiggling for the camera, blew up online, but they’re about to bite me in the ass.

“Mira, office. Now,” Jack barks from the doorway, his voice cutting through the hum of a busted AC unit. He’s late 50s, white, a paunchy fucker with thinning gray hair, a red face, and beady blue eyes that always linger too long on my long legs. I strut over, my heels clicking sharp, my wavy hair swaying, my brown eyes narrowing as I step into his cramped office—papers everywhere, a fan whirring uselessly, the air thick with his cheap cologne and sweat.

“What’s up, boss?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, my skirt riding up to tease my pale thighs, my full lips curled in a half-smirk, knowing damn well what’s coming.

He slams his phone down, the screen frozen on one of my TikToks—me twerking on the Corvette, my shapely thighs flexing, my pouty lips purring about its “smooth ride.” “What the fuck is this, Mira?” he snaps, his face redder than usual. “You’re peddling shit that ain't mine? You think you can run a side hustle under my nose?”

I cross my arms, my perky tits straining the blouse, my high cheekbones sharp in the dim light. “Yeah, Jack, I flipped those cars. My money, my hustle. What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” he roars, standing up, his gut jiggling under his polo. “You’re using my business to promote your little scam! Stop this shit now, or you’re fucking fired!”

My blood boils, my brown eyes flashing under long lashes. I step forward, my heels clicking, my plump ass swaying as I lean over his desk, my pale hands planted firm. “Shove it, Jack. I’m not your fucking pawn. I quit before you can humiliate me, you cheap-ass prick.”

His jaw drops, but I’m already turning, my wavy hair whipping behind me, my skirt flipping up to flash my thongs as I strut out, slamming the door so hard the glass rattles. I grab my purse from the counter, ignoring Mark’s wide-eyed stare from across the lot—he’s mid-20s, blond, lanky, probably wondering what the hell just happened. “Later, babe,” I call, my voice sharp, and slide into my E21, the engine roaring to life as I peel out, tires screeching, the lot shrinking in my rearview.

The city blurs past, the E21’s purr a steady hum under my shapely thighs, my pale fingers gripping the wheel tight. Losing Jack’s gig stings—I needed that steady cash to keep my hustle afloat. But I’ve got a chunk saved from the Mustang and Corvette, plus other side gigs, enough to float me for a bit. My mind’s racing, plotting next moves—maybe lean harder into flipping, hit another auction, or sweet-talk Pete into fronting me a project. I’m not broke, but I’m not free yet, and that gnaws at me, my full lips pursing as I weave through traffic, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck, my perky tits bouncing with every bump.

My iPhone buzzes on the passenger seat, snapping me out of my spiral. Kemar “Benga” Reid’s name flashes on the screen, and I smirk, my pouty lips curling despite the shit day. Kemar’s my Jamaican fuck-buddy, a 6’4” beast in his mid-30s, Black as night, built like a goddamn tank—broad shoulders, thick arms, abs you could grate steel on. His dreads spill past his shoulders, dark eyes sharp with a glint of mischief, always rocking baggy clothes and a silver chain that swings when he moves. We met months back at Jack's, then hooked up at Rasta Roadhouse, his patois so thick I barely caught half of it, but his cock—10 inches, thick as a fucking can, veiny and relentless—spoke louder than words. He fucked me raw that night, called me “likkle gyal,” and we’ve been hooking up ever since, no strings, just good vibes and better sex. He’s a hustler too, runs weed and odd jobs, but he’s loyal, always got my back when shit hits.

I hit speaker, keeping my eyes on the road, my pale hands steady on the wheel. “Wah gwaan, Benga?” I say, mimicking his accent just to fuck with him, my brown eyes glinting with a spark of play.

“Likkle gyal, mi haffi talk serious,” Kemar’s voice rumbles through, heavy with that Jamaican patois, but no laugh in it today. “Yuh hear ‘bout Aiden? Him fuck up bad, zeen.”

My gut twists, my full lips parting as I sit up straighter, my perky tits straining the blouse. “What the fuck, Kemar? Aiden’s supposed to be in rehab. What’d he do now?”

Aiden’s my best friend, has been since we were kids, but he’s a goddamn mess—19, white, skinny as a rail, 5’9”, maybe 130 pounds soaking wet. His black hair’s always greasy, hanging over hollow green eyes that twitch when he’s high, which is most of the time. He’s a junkie, hooked on anything he can snort or shoot, and I’ve been dragging his ass out of trouble for years. I checked him into rehab myself weeks ago, thinking he’d finally stay clean after Kemar’s crew caught him stealing weed. But Aiden’s got a knack for fucking up, and now my heart’s pounding, my pale thighs clenching against the leather seat.

“Mi hear him try rip off some badman dem,” Kemar says, his voice low, urgent. “Eastern European Jewish mafia—dey call demself ‘Zion’s Blade.’ Run coke, guns, all kinda shit. Aiden try sell dem fake coke, yuh zeen? Inferior shit, an’ dem ketch him. Now dem got him lock up in a warehouse, downtown. Mi know where, if yuh wan’ check it out.”

“Zion’s Blade?” I snap, my brown eyes narrowing, my high cheekbones sharp in the dashboard’s glow. “Who the fuck are these assholes?” I’ve heard whispers—ruthless pricks, mostly Russian and Ukrainian Jews, late 20s to 40s, running drugs and weapons with an iron grip. They’re not just gangsters; they’re fanatics, spitting supremacist bullshit about being God’s chosen, cutting down anyone who crosses them. And Aiden, that dumbass, thought he could scam them?

“Dem nuh play, Mira,” Kemar warns. “Got a warehouse on 4th an’ Pike, big operation—coke, rifles, all dat. Aiden in deep shit, likkle gyal. Yuh wan’ mi help?”

I’m fucking livid, my pale hands gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles bleach, my wavy hair bouncing as I jerk the E21 into a U-turn, tires squealing. Aiden’s my ride-or-die, the one who stuck by me when I came out, but he’s a goddamn anchor, dragging me into his chaos again. Rehab was supposed to fix him, not spit him back out to scam mobsters. Why the hell didn’t he tell me he was out? And why the fuck is he playing with mafia coke? “Kemar, I’m going to that warehouse,” I growl, my voice sharp, my pouty lips tight. “Help me get him out. Please.”

“Mi wid yuh, likkle gyal,” he says, steady as fuck. “Meet mi at 4th an’ Pike, near de old deli—yuh know it? Mi be dere quick.”

“Got it. I’m on my way.” I hang up, gunning the engine, the E21 roaring as I blaze through the city, my perky tits jiggling with every swerve, my shapely thighs working the pedals like a pro. The streets blur—neon signs, honking cabs, the stink of asphalt and exhaust. My mind’s a storm: Jack’s bullshit, Aiden’s fuckup, and now some Jewish mafia pricks thinking they can bury my friend. My brown eyes burn under long lashes, my full lips set in a hard line, my pale skin prickling with rage and dread.

I pull up to the rendezvous point—a shuttered deli on 4th, its windows boarded, graffiti scrawled across the brick. The street’s quiet, just a few flickering streetlamps and the distant hum of traffic. I park the E21, my slingbacks hitting the pavement as I step out, my plaid skirt swaying, my plump ass jiggling with every step, my blouse sticking to my sweaty tits. My wavy hair catches the breeze, brushing my high cheekbones as I scan the shadows, my heart pounding but my resolve iron.

Kemar’s DeVille rolls up minutes later, the V8 growling low, its chrome glinting under the streetlight. He steps out, a fucking giant in a baggy black jacket, white t-shirt loose over his chiseled chest, cargo pants sagging low, sneakers scuffed from the streets. His dreads swing as he moves, his dark eyes locking on me, his silver chain flashing as he strides over, all power and purpose. “Yuh reach, likkle gyal,” he says, his patois thick, his big hand brushing my pale arm, sending a shiver through me despite the shitstorm. “Yuh sure ‘bout dis? Dem Zion’s Blade nuh fuck around.”

“I’m sure,” I snap, my brown eyes fierce, my pouty lips tight as I toss my wavy hair. “Aiden’s a fuckup, but he’s mine. Take me to the warehouse, Kemar.”

He nods, his jaw tight, and leads me on foot around the block, his bulk a steady presence beside my long legs. The warehouse looms ahead—a hulking, windowless beast of concrete and rust, its exterior stained with grime, a faded sign reading “Pike Storage” peeling above a heavy steel door. Chain-link fencing surrounds it, topped with barbed wire, and a couple of floodlights cast harsh shadows across the lot, littered with broken pallets and cigarette butts. It’s a fortress, silent but menacing, the air thick with the tang of oil and decay.

“We nuh know wha’ gwaan inside,” Kemar murmurs, his dark eyes scanning the building, his hand slipping under his jacket to grip a pistol. “Mi say we buss in, guns blazin’, zeen? Yuh a good shot—mi see yuh at de lake cabin.” He pulls a sleek 9mm from his waistband, offering it to me, its weight cold and tempting in the dim light.

I shake my head, my wavy hair swaying, my pale hands raised. “Nah, Kemar, I’m not storming in like some fucking action hero. I’ll go alone, talk my way in, see what’s up. No bloodbath unless we have to.”

He frowns, his dreads shifting, but nods. “Aight, likkle gyal, but we stay connected.” He pulls out his phone, dialing mine, and I answer, slipping an earbud in, his voice a low hum in my ear. “Mi hear everyt’ing, zeen? Yuh get in trouble, mi come runnin’.”

“Deal,” I say, my full lips curling slightly, my brown eyes steady as I adjust my blouse, my perky tits rising with a deep breath. Kemar slips behind a dumpster, his bulk disappearing into the shadows, and I strut to the warehouse door, my slingbacks clicking loud, my plump ass swaying, my heart hammering but my face cool as fuck. I’m Mira, and I’m walking into hell for my friend.

---

I pound on the steel door, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet night, my pale knuckles stinging from the cold metal. My blouse clings to my perky tits, my plaid skirt barely covering my juicy ass, my long legs steady in my slingbacks despite the adrenaline spiking my veins. My wavy hair brushes my high cheekbones, my brown eyes sharp under long lashes, my full pouty lips set in a hard line as I wait, Kemar’s voice a faint hum in my earbud, urging me to stay sharp.

The door creaks open after what feels like forever, and a guy steps into the light—mid-30s, white, Eastern European, maybe Russian, 6’0”, lean but wiry, with a shaved head and cold gray eyes that rake over my pale skin, lingering on my shapely thighs. His face is all sharp angles, a hooked nose and thin lips curled in a sneer, his black jacket and jeans reeking of cigarette smoke. “What the fuck you want, girl?” he snaps, his accent thick, rolling his r’s like a blade.

I tilt my head, my wavy hair falling over one shoulder, my pouty lips curling just enough to disarm him. “I’m here for Aiden,” I say, voice steady, my brown eyes locked on his. “I know you’ve got him. Let’s talk.”

He stares, his gray eyes narrowing, then slams the door shut. I stand there, my pale hands clenching, my perky tits rising with every breath, until he returns minutes later, jerking his head. “Come in,” he grunts, stepping aside, and I strut past him, my heels clicking on the concrete, my plump ass swaying, feeling his gaze burn into me as he leads me inside.

The warehouse is a fucking labyrinth—towering stacks of wooden crates stamped with Cyrillic letters, some cracked open to reveal glinting rifles and ammo boxes, others sealed tight, probably stuffed with coke or worse. The air’s thick with the stench of gun oil, dust, and stale sweat, the only light coming from flickering fluorescents overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Forklifts sit idle in corners, chains dangle from the ceiling, and the distant hum of machinery buzzes like a trapped wasp. It’s a warzone waiting to happen, and my heart’s pounding, my tiny cock twitching in my thongs from the sheer danger, my pale skin prickling as we weave through the maze to a steel door at the back.

He pushes it open, revealing a dimly lit office—bare concrete walls, a metal desk cluttered with papers and vodka bottles, a couple of battered chairs, and a flickering bulb swinging overhead. Five guys are inside, all Eastern European, their accents thick, their eyes hard. The boss stands out—late 40s, 5’11”, stocky, with a gray buzzcut and a scarred face, brown eyes cold as ice, wearing a black turtleneck and slacks, a gold chain glinting at his neck. His name’s Viktor, I catch later, leader of Zion’s Blade, a fanatic who spits Jewish supremacist bullshit like it’s gospel. The others are younger, 20s to 30s: a lanky fuck with greasy blond hair and blue eyes, a beefy one with a shaved head and green eyes, a wiry guy with a ponytail and hazel eyes, and a short, broad bastard with a beard and black eyes, all in dark jackets and jeans, packing heat in holsters.

Viktor steps forward, his scarred face twisting as he looks me over—my perky tits straining the blouse, my juicy ass hugged by the skirt, my long legs gleaming in the dim light. “Who the fuck are you, little girl?” he snarls, his accent heavy, his brown eyes boring into mine. “What’s this Aiden to you?”

I plant my pale hands on my hips, my wavy hair swaying, my brown eyes fierce under long lashes. “Aiden’s my friend,” I say, voice sharp. “I heard you’ve got him locked up for some bullshit deal. Let him go, and we walk away clean.”

The blond laughs, a harsh bark, his blue eyes glinting. “This shiksa thinks she can bargain for her goy friend,” he sneers, spitting supremacist venom. “Aiden tried to fuck us with fake coke—thought he could cheat God’s chosen. He dies for that.”

“How’d you know we have him?” the beefy one growls, his green eyes narrowing, stepping closer, his bulk looming over my 5’6” frame. “Who else knows you’re here, huh?”

I toss my wavy hair, my full lips curling, keeping Kemar’s name locked tight. “Just me,” I lie, my pale skin prickling under their stares. “I’ve got sources, alright? Nobody else knows shit.”

Viktor leans against the desk, his gold chain glinting, his scarred face unreadable. “Aiden’s a thief, a liar. He must pay. And you…” His brown eyes roam my shapely thighs, my plump ass, my perky tits. “You see too much, little goy whore. Zion’s Blade doesn’t let witnesses walk.”

My gut twists, but I hold my ground, my high cheekbones sharp in the flickering light. “Where’s Aiden?” I demand, my voice steady, my brown eyes burning. “Let me see him.”

Viktor jerks his head toward a locked door behind him, his lips twitching. “Go look, shiksa. See your friend’s fate.” The others don’t stop me as I step forward, my slingbacks clicking, my pale hands trembling slightly as I twist the knob and push the door open.

Aiden’s there, tied to a metal chair in a bare concrete room, lit by a single bulb. He’s a fucking wreck—19, skinny, his black hair matted with blood, his green eyes swollen half-shut, his pale face bruised and bleeding, his gray hoodie torn, jeans ripped at the knees. He sees me, his busted lips parting, voice a hoarse croak. “Mira… help me, please…”

“Aiden, you fucking idiot,” I whisper, my brown eyes watering, my pouty lips trembling as I step toward him, my wavy hair falling over my face. Before I can reach him, the door slams behind me, and rough hands grab me from behind—the beefy guy, his green eyes blazing, his grip like iron on my pale arms.

“Pretty shiksa,” the blond sneers, stepping close, his blue eyes raking over my perky tits, his thin lips curling. “Too fine to waste on a bullet. We fuck her first, da? Enjoy that goy body before she’s gone.”

“No!” I scream, thrashing, my long legs kicking, my slingbacks slipping on the concrete, but the beefy guy’s too strong, hauling me up, my wavy hair whipping as he carries me upstairs, the others following, their laughs echoing like hyenas. My heart’s pounding, my tiny cock twitching in my thongs from fear and rage, my pale skin flushing as they shove me into a dank room—bare walls, a stained mattress on the floor, a single bulb swinging overhead, the air thick with mold and despair.

There’s nine of them now, the office crew joined by four more—mid-20s to 30s, all Eastern European, their accents dripping with hate, their eyes burning with lust. Viktor, the boss, looms at the center, late 40s, 5’11”, stocky, his gray buzzcut and scarred face grim under the swinging bulb, his black turtleneck tight over his gut, a gold chain glinting as he steps closer. The blond from the office, early 30s, lanky with greasy hair and blue eyes, smirks like a jackal, his black jacket open to show a stained tee. The beefy one, late 20s, shaved head, green eyes sharp with malice, towers at 6’2”, his dark jeans straining over thick thighs. The wiry guy with a ponytail, mid-20s, hazel eyes glinting, fidgets with a knife in his belt, his lean frame coiled. The short, broad one with a beard, early 30s, black eyes cold, cracks his knuckles, his flannel shirt half-unbuttoned. New faces join them: a tall fucker with a mohawk, late 20s, gray eyes narrow, his leather vest reeking of smoke; a stocky bastard with a broken nose, early 30s, brown eyes dull with cruelty, his hoodie zipped low; a lean one with a buzzcut, mid-20s, blue eyes feverish, tattoos snaking up his neck; and a broad guy with a goatee, late 20s, hazel eyes glinting, his cargo pants sagging under a heavy belt. They’re Zion’s Blade, supremacist scum, circling me like wolves, their breath hot, the room—a dank, moldy box with a stained mattress—closing in, my heart hammering, my pale ivory skin prickling under my thin blouse.

“Strip, shiksa whore,” Viktor snarls, his scarred face twisting, his brown eyes raking my 5’6” frame—my small, perky tits pushing against the blouse, my plaid mini skirt hugging my round, firm ass, my long, toned legs flexing in my slingbacks. I freeze, my dark, wavy hair brushing my shoulders, my brown eyes flashing defiance under long lashes, but the beefy guy lunges, his green eyes blazing, grabbing my blouse with meaty hands. He rips it open, buttons popping like gunfire, the white fabric tearing to expose my pale chest, my pink nipples stiffening in the cold air, my tits small but high, catching the dim light. I gasp, my full lips parting, my high cheekbones sharp as I twist, but the blond grabs my skirt, yanking it down my thighs, the plaid crumpling at my feet, leaving my black thongs clinging to my hips, the thin strip barely covering my tiny cock and balls, my pale skin glowing under their stares.

“Get those off, goy slut,” the mohawk guy growls, his gray eyes hungry, and the ponytail guy slices my thongs with his knife, the fabric snapping, my tiny cock springing free—2 inches, hard from adrenaline, my balls tight against my pale crotch. They pause, eyes widening, a ripple of shock crossing their faces.

“What in God’s name?” the stocky guy with the broken nose mutters, his brown eyes squinting, stepping back, his hoodie shifting over his gut. “This shiksa’s no girl—a fucking shemale?”

“Still got holes,” the buzzcut guy sneers, his blue eyes glinting, stroking his jaw, tattoos flexing. “Zion’s chosen fuck what we want, da? This freak’s ass is ours.”

I spit at him, my full lips curling, my brown eyes blazing. “Fuck you, pricks!” I snap, my voice sharp, my wavy hair whipping as I lunge, but the beefy guy grabs my pale arms, wrenching them back, his grip bruising my skin, my tits jiggling as I struggle, my slingbacks scraping the concrete, my long legs kicking uselessly, my heart pounding like a drum, my tiny cock bobbing, exposed.

“On your knees, goy cunt,” Viktor orders, his gold chain glinting as he steps closer, his scarred face cold. The beefy guy shoves me down, my knees hitting the concrete hard, pain shooting through my pale legs, my slingbacks still on, their straps biting my ankles, my wavy hair falling over my face, my brown eyes glaring up through long lashes, my full lips trembling but defiant. They crowd around, unzipping, cocks springing free, a forest of flesh—veiny, thick, slim, curved, all pulsing, their musky stench filling my nose, my pale skin prickling with dread and rage.

Viktor goes first, his cock—8 inches, thick, pale, with a blunt head—shoving past my full lips, stretching my mouth wide, his coarse pubes scratching my nose as he thrusts deep, hitting my throat, gagging me hard. “Suck it, shiksa,” he snarls, his accent heavy, grabbing my wavy hair, yanking my head forward, my pale throat spasming, drool spilling down my chin, dripping onto my bare tits, my nipples stinging as spit slicks them. I choke, my brown eyes watering, my long lashes wet, but I suck, my lips sliding along his shaft, tongue pressed flat, tasting salt and sweat, my pale hands clawing the air, my tiny cock twitching despite the humiliation, my knees grinding into the floor.

He pulls out, his cock slick with my spit, and the blond steps up, his 7-inch dick—slim, pale, with a pink head—ramming into my mouth, his blue eyes glinting as he fucks my face, his greasy hair swinging, his balls slapping my chin, wet and heavy. “Choke, you goy freak,” he spits, his hands tangling in my hair, pulling tight, my scalp burning, my lips stretched to breaking, drool flooding, my pale face flushed, my tits swaying as I rock forward, my slingbacks creaking, my long legs folded under me, my tiny balls aching from the strain.

One by one, they take turns—nine cocks, each different, each brutal. The beefy guy’s 8-incher, dark and veiny, fills my throat, his green eyes wild, his shaved head gleaming as he thrusts, his gut brushing my forehead, spit stringing to my lips when he pulls back. The ponytail guy’s 6-inch cock, curved and slim, gags me shallow, his hazel eyes mocking, his knife glinting on his belt as he smirks, my drool soaking his balls. The bearded guy’s 7-inch dick, thick and blunt, stretches my jaw, his black eyes cold, his flannel shirt brushing my cheek, my throat convulsing as he holds deep, my pale skin burning, my brown eyes streaming. The mohawk guy’s 9-incher, long and pale, chokes me to tears, his gray eyes cruel, his leather vest creaking, my lips bruising, my tiny cock leaking pre-cum onto the concrete. The stocky guy’s 7-inch cock, dark and girthy, rams my gag reflex, his broken nose flaring, his brown eyes dull, drool dripping to my pale tits, my nipples raw. The buzzcut guy’s 6.5-inch dick, veiny and red, fucks my mouth sloppy, his blue eyes feverish, tattoos flexing, my lips swollen, my long lashes soaked. The goatee guy’s 8-inch cock, curved and heavy, gags me deep, his hazel eyes glinting, his cargo pants bunched at his thighs, my pale face smeared with spit, my hair a sweaty curtain.

They keep at it, minutes blurring, my throat raw, my full lips numb, my brown eyes dazed but burning, my pale knees bruised, my slingbacks digging into my heels, my tiny cock hard and leaking, my tits slick with drool, my wavy hair yanked in every direction, my high cheekbones aching from slaps—crack—each goon leaving a stinging mark, their supremacist taunts—“goy whore,” “shemale slut”—ringing in my ears, my heart pounding with hate, my body trembling but refusing to break.

“Enough mouth,” Viktor growls, his gold chain glinting, his scarred face twisted as he hauls me up, my pale arms limp, my long legs wobbling in my slingbacks, my bare tits bouncing, my tiny cock bobbing, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck. They shove me onto the mattress, the stains rough against my pale skin, and force me onto all fours, my knees sinking into the fabric, my pale hands braced, my round ass thrust high, my long legs spread, my slingbacks dangling off the edge, my brown eyes glaring back, my full lips set in a snarl.

The blond steps up behind me, his blue eyes gleaming, his 7-inch cock slick with my spit. He spits on my hole—hot, thick, dripping down my crack—and lines up, slamming in raw, his slim shaft splitting my ass, the burn sharp, my pale skin flushing as I scream, my tits swaying under me, my tiny cock bouncing, pre-cum smearing the mattress. “Fuck, you tight goy cunt,” he snarls, thrusting hard, his hips smacking my ass—slap, slap, slap—his greasy hair swinging, his hands gripping my hips, bruising my pale flesh. He spanks me—crack—his palm stinging my right cheek, heat blooming, my hole clenching his cock, my brown eyes watering, my wavy hair falling over my face, my long lashes trembling.

“Harder, you prick!” I spit, voice raw, defiance flaring despite the pain, my pale hands clawing the mattress, my long legs tensing, my slingbacks creaking. He laughs, spanking again—crack, crack—left, then right, my ass burning, his thrusts brutal, his balls slapping my tiny balls, sending jolts through me, my tits rocking, my nipples scraping the fabric, my high cheekbones tight with strain.

The beefy guy kneels in front, his green eyes wild, his 8-inch cock—dark, veiny, fat-headed—shoving into my mouth, stretching my full lips, his shaved head gleaming as he fucks my face, his gut brushing my nose, his musky scent choking me. “Suck it, shiksa,” he grunts, his hands gripping my wavy hair, yanking hard, my scalp stinging, drool spilling down my pale chin, dripping to my tits, my throat spasming as he rams deep, my brown eyes locked on his, defiant even as I gag, my long legs shaking, my ass bouncing under the blond’s slams.

The mohawk guy kneels beside me, his gray eyes cruel, his leather vest creaking as he grabs my tiny cock, his fingers rough, twisting my balls hard, pain exploding, my pale thighs twitching, my slingbacks slipping. “Scream, you freak,” he snarls, slapping my cock—crack—the sting blinding, my muffled cries vibrating around the beefy guy’s dick, my ass clenching the blond’s cock, my tits swaying wildly, my wavy hair tangled in the beefy guy’s grip, my brown eyes streaming, my full lips stretched obscene.

The blond speeds up, his thrusts erratic, his blue eyes rolling, and he cums hard, his 7-incher pulsing, hot ropes flooding my ass, spilling deep, slicking my insides, his groans echoing as he grinds against me, his greasy hair plastered to his face, his hands bruising my hips, my pale skin marked, my tiny cock leaking despite the pain, my long legs trembling, my slingbacks dangling. He pulls out, his cum dripping down my crack, smearing my pale thighs, the mattress wet beneath me, my brown eyes blazing through tears, my full lips gasping around the beefy guy’s cock.

The beefy guy pulls out of my mouth, his 8-incher slick, and flips me onto my back, the mattress rough against my pale shoulders, my wavy hair splaying out, my brown eyes glaring up, my full lips swollen, my tits bare and sensitive, my nipples pink and raw. He lifts my long legs high, my slingbacks swaying, my pale ankles over his shoulders, his green eyes wild as he lines up his fat-headed cock, shoving into my cum-slick ass, the stretch raw but easier now, my pale skin flushing, my tiny cock bouncing on my stomach, pre-cum pooling in my navel, my tits jiggling with every thrust, my high cheekbones tight with strain.

“Fuck you, you pig,” I growl, voice hoarse, my pale hands clawing the mattress, my long legs tensing, my slingbacks creaking as he pounds me, his gut slapping my thighs, his balls smacking my ass, wet and loud—slap, slap, slap—his shaved head gleaming, his grunts filling the room, my brown eyes locked on his, hate burning through the pain, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty forehead, my full lips parted, panting.

The ponytail guy kneels beside my head, his hazel eyes glinting, his 6-inch cock—curved, slim—nudging my lips, forcing them open, sliding into my mouth, his knife still on his belt, glinting as he fucks my face, shallow but sharp, his pubes tickling my nose, drool spilling down my pale cheek, dripping to my hair, my throat sore but working, my lips stretched tight, my brown eyes watering, my long lashes wet. He grabs my tits, his fingers cruel, pinching my nipples hard, twisting, pain shooting through my pale chest, my muffled screams vibrating his cock, my ass clenching the beefy guy’s dick, my tiny cock twitching, my long legs quaking in my slingbacks, my high cheekbones stinging from earlier slaps.

“Goddamn goy whore,” the ponytail guy snarls, twisting my nipples harder, red marks blooming on my pale tits, his curved cock gagging me, his hazel eyes mocking, my pale face flushed, my wavy hair tangled under my head, my brown eyes defiant despite the tears. The beefy guy pulls out sudden, his 8-incher throbbing, and strokes fast, spraying his load across my pale stomach, thick ropes splattering my navel, my tiny cock, my pale thighs, his green eyes rolling, his shaved head slick with sweat, his grunts echoing as he milks every drop, my ass gaping, cum dripping from the blond’s load, my tits stinging from the ponytail guy’s torture, my long legs limp, my slingbacks loose, my brown eyes burning, my full lips gasping as the ponytail guy pulls out, his cock slick with my spit.

The mohawk guy and the bearded guy step up, their eyes—gray and black—gleaming with lust, their cocks—9 inches, long and pale, and 7 inches, thick and blunt—ready. They lift me, my pale body trembling, my wavy hair falling over my shoulders, my brown eyes wide, my full lips swollen, and set me in cowgirl, straddling the mohawk guy on the mattress, his leather vest rough against my pale thighs, his 9-incher nudging my slick hole, sliding in deep, the stretch burning, my pale ass sinking onto him, my tiny cock bouncing, my tits swaying, my slingbacks planted shaky, my long legs flexing. The bearded guy kneels behind, his flannel shirt brushing my back, his 7-inch cock pressing against my already-stuffed ass, forcing in alongside, double anal tearing me open, pain ripping through me, my pale skin flushing red, my brown eyes streaming, my full lips screaming, my wavy hair whipping as I thrash, my high cheekbones tight, my pale hands clawing the mohawk guy’s vest.

“Fuck, no!” I sob, voice breaking, my pale body shaking, my long legs buckling, my slingbacks slipping, but they thrust—mohawk guy slow and deep, bearded guy rough and fast—their cocks grinding inside me, stretching my ass obscene, cum from the blond slicking the way, my tiny cock leaking, smearing the mohawk guy’s stomach, my tits bouncing wildly, my nipples raw, my brown eyes locked on the ceiling, my full lips drooling.

The stocky guy with the broken nose kneels in front, his brown eyes dull, his 7-inch cock—dark, girthy—shoving into my mouth, gagging me hard, his hoodie reeking of sweat, his pubes choking me, drool flooding my pale chin, dripping to my tits, my throat spasming, my lips stretched, my brown eyes watering, my wavy hair yanked by his rough hands, my high cheekbones aching. The buzzcut guy and the goatee guy stand beside, their cocks—6.5 inches, veiny, and 8 inches, curved—thrust into my pale hands, forcing me to stroke them, their pre-cum slicking my fingers, my nails scraping their shafts, their groans mixing with my muffled cries, my long legs trembling, my slingbacks creaking, my ass stuffed double, my tiny cock throbbing, my pale skin marked with sweat and cum.

“Stroke harder, goy slut,” the buzzcut guy snarls, his blue eyes feverish, tattoos flexing, his 6.5-incher pulsing in my grip, my pale fingers slick, my brown eyes darting to him, hate flaring. The goatee guy slaps my hand—crack—his hazel eyes glinting, his 8-inch cock twitching, my pale skin stinging, my full lips choking around the stocky guy’s dick, my ass screaming from the double anal, my tits swaying, my high cheekbones flushed, my wavy hair a mess, my slingbacks digging into my heels.

The mohawk guy and bearded guy speed up, their thrusts syncing, their cocks pulsing, and they cum together, hot loads flooding my ass, mixing with the blond’s, spilling deep, slicking my insides, their groans echoing, the mohawk guy’s gray eyes rolling, the bearded guy’s black eyes shut tight, my pale ass stretched wide, cum dripping down my pale thighs, my long legs shaking, my slingbacks loose, my tiny cock leaking, my brown eyes dazed, my full lips gasping as the stocky guy pulls out, his 7-incher throbbing, stroking fast, cumming in my mouth, hot and bitter, forcing me to swallow, spit and cum dripping down my pale chin, my tits slick, my wavy hair matted, my high cheekbones bruised, my brown eyes burning through tears.

They shift again, relentless, the buzzcut guy and goatee guy taking my ass now, lifting me into reverse cowgirl, my pale back against the buzzcut guy’s tattooed chest, his 6.5-inch cock sliding into my gaping hole, the stretch raw, my pale thighs spread wide, my slingbacks dangling, my long legs limp, my tiny cock bouncing, my tits bare and sensitive, my wavy hair falling over my shoulders, my brown eyes locked on the ceiling, my full lips parted, panting. The goatee guy kneels between my legs, his 8-inch cock—curved, heavy—forcing in alongside, double anal again, the pain sharp, my pale skin flushing, my ass stretched obscene, cum from the mohawk and bearded guys slicking the way, my pale hands clawing the mattress, my high cheekbones tight, my brown eyes streaming, my full lips screaming, “Fuck, stop!”

“No stopping, goy cunt,” the goatee guy snarls, his hazel eyes glinting, his cargo pants bunched, his thrusts deep, the buzzcut guy’s cock grinding shallow, their balls slapping my pale thighs, my tiny cock leaking, my tits swaying, my slingbacks creaking, my long legs trembling, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck, my brown eyes half-lidded, my full lips drooling, my pale skin marked with their grip.

The beefy guy steps up, his green eyes wild, his 8-inch cock—dark, veiny—shoving into my mouth, stretching my full lips, his shaved head gleaming, his gut brushing my forehead, drool spilling fast, dripping to my tits, my throat spasming, my lips swollen, my brown eyes watering, my wavy hair yanked by his hands, my high cheekbones stinging, my pale face flushed, my ass stuffed double, my tiny cock throbbing, my long legs limp, my slingbacks loose. “Suck it, shiksa,” he grunts, fucking my face rough, his balls slapping my chin, wet and loud, my muffled cries mixing with the buzzcut and goatee guys’ groans, their cocks tearing my ass, cum dripping everywhere, my pale skin slick, my tits raw, my brown eyes burning, my full lips choking.

The buzzcut and goatee guys cum hard, their loads flooding my ass, hot and thick, mixing with the others, spilling deep, their thrusts slowing, the buzzcut guy’s blue eyes rolling, the goatee guy’s hazel eyes shut, my pale ass gaping, cum pouring down my pale thighs, smearing the mattress, my long legs shaking, my slingbacks slipping, my tiny cock leaking, my brown eyes dazed, my full lips gasping as the beefy guy pulls out, his cock slick, my pale chin dripping, my wavy hair matted, my high cheekbones bruised, my pale skin marked.

Viktor and the blond take over, their eyes—brown and blue—burning, their cocks—8 inches, thick, and 7 inches, slim—ready. They lift me, Viktor’s gold chain glinting, his scarred face cold as he wraps my long legs around his waist, my pale thighs squeezing, my slingbacks swaying, my pale arms limp, my wavy hair falling over my shoulders, my brown eyes locked on his, my full lips trembling, my tits pressed against his turtleneck, my tiny cock trapped between us, leaking. He shoves his 8-incher into my ass, the stretch brutal, my pale skin flushing, my ass slick with cum, his thrusts deep, his balls slapping my pale cheeks, my high cheekbones tight, my brown eyes streaming, my full lips gasping, “Fuck you, Viktor!”

The blond steps behind, his greasy hair swinging, his 7-inch cock pressing against my stuffed hole, forcing in alongside Viktor, double anal standing, the pain ripping through me, my pale body shaking, my long legs trembling around Viktor’s waist, my slingbacks loose, my pale hands clawing his shoulders, my tits bouncing, my nipples raw, my tiny cock leaking, my wavy hair whipping, my brown eyes wide, my full lips screaming, my pale skin bruised, my high cheekbones aching. “Take it, goy freak,” the blond sneers, his thrusts shallow, Viktor’s deep, their cocks grinding, cum slicking the way, my ass stretched obscene, my pale thighs quaking, my brown eyes rolling, my full lips drooling, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty face.

They pound me, Viktor’s gut slapping my stomach, the blond’s hips smacking my pale cheeks, their balls hitting my thighs, wet and loud—slap, slap, slap—my pale body rocking, my tits swaying, my tiny cock smearing pre-cum across Viktor’s shirt, my long legs limp, my slingbacks dangling, my brown eyes half-lidded, my full lips gasping, my wavy hair a mess, my high cheekbones flushed, my pale skin marked. They cum together, hot loads flooding my ass, spilling deep, mixing with the others, dripping down my pale thighs, Viktor’s brown eyes cold, the blond’s blue eyes wild, their groans echoing, my ass gaping, my long legs shaking, my slingbacks loose, my pale body trembling, my brown eyes dazed, my full lips swollen, my wavy hair matted, my high cheekbones bruised, my pale skin slick.

They drop me onto the mattress, my pale back hitting the stains, my long legs splaying wide, my slingbacks still on, my pale ankles bruised, my wavy hair splaying out, my brown eyes glaring, my full lips trembling, my tits bare and red, my tiny cock hard, my pale stomach slick with the beefy guy’s cum, my ass gaping, cum pouring out, soaking the fabric, my high cheekbones tight, my pale skin marked with their hands. The buzzcut and goatee guys kneel between my legs, their eyes—blue and hazel—gleaming, their hands slick with spit, the buzzcut guy’s tattoos flexing, the goatee guy’s cargo pants bunched, as they take turns fisting my ass, the buzzcut guy going first, his fist—knuckles rough—shoving in slow, stretching my sloppy hole, past his wrist, then deeper, elbow-deep, the pain obscene, my pale body bucking, my long legs kicking, my slingbacks swaying, my pale hands clawing the mattress, my brown eyes wide, my full lips screaming, “Fuck, no!”

“Take it, goy cunt,” the buzzcut guy snarls, his fist twisting, grinding inside me, cum slicking the way, my ass gaping, my pale thighs trembling, my tiny cock leaking, my tits bouncing, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty forehead, my high cheekbones flushed, my pale skin bruised. The goatee guy takes over, his fist—thicker, calloused—pushing in, elbow-deep, faster, his hazel eyes glinting, his thrusts brutal, my pale body shaking, my long legs limp, my slingbacks loose, my brown eyes streaming, my full lips drooling, my pale stomach tightening, my tiny cock throbbing, my ass stretched beyond reason, my high cheekbones aching, my pale skin slick.

The beefy guy and blond hold my long legs apart, their hands bruising my pale ankles, my slingbacks dangling, my pale thighs spread wide, my ass exposed, gaping, cum dripping, my brown eyes locked on the ceiling, my full lips gasping, my wavy hair splaying, my high cheekbones bruised, my pale skin marked. The mohawk, bearded, and stocky guys kneel around me, their cocks—9 inches, 7 inches, 7 inches—stroking fast, their eyes—gray, black, brown—wild, as they torture my body, the mohawk guy twisting my nipples, his fingers cruel, red marks blooming on my pale tits, pain shooting through me, my brown eyes watering, my full lips screaming, my wavy hair tangled, my high cheekbones tight, my pale skin stinging. The bearded guy slaps my tiny cock—crack—the sting blinding, my pale thighs twitching, my slingbacks creaking, my brown eyes streaming, my full lips drooling, my pale stomach slick with cum, my ass fisted raw, my high cheekbones flushed, my pale skin bruised.

They stroke faster, their groans rising, and cum together, hot ropes spraying across my pale body—my face, splattering my full lips, dripping down my high cheekbones; my wavy hair, matting it sticky; my tits, soaking my red nipples; my stomach, mixing with the beefy guy’s load, pooling in my navel, my tiny cock glistening, my pale thighs streaked, my long legs limp, my slingbacks loose, my brown eyes half-lidded, my full lips swollen, my wavy hair a wreck, my high cheekbones bruised, my pale skin a canvas of their filth, my ass gaping, cum pouring out, my body trembling, my heart pounding with rage and pain.

They tie me up—ropes biting my pale wrists and ankles, my long legs bound tight, my round ass exposed, my small tits heaving as I whimper, my brown eyes half-lidded, my full lips trembling, my pale body shaking on the mattress, cum dripping everywhere, my tiny cock throbbing despite the pain, my heart pounding with fear and rage. They leave me there, the door slamming shut, their laughs fading, and I’m alone, wrecked, my wavy hair plastered to my face, my high cheekbones bruised, my pale skin a canvas of their brutality.

---

I’m trembling on the mattress, ropes cutting into my pale wrists and ankles, my plump ass throbbing, cum dripping down my shapely thighs, my perky tits aching, my tiny cock pulsing with pain, my wavy hair a sweaty mess, my brown eyes blurry with tears under long lashes, my full pouty lips whimpering softly in the dim, moldy room. The warehouse is silent now, just the distant hum of machinery and my own ragged breaths, my pale skin slick with sweat and filth, my heart heavy with dread for Aiden, still tied up downstairs, and rage at these Zion’s Blade fuckers who think they can break me. I’m Mira, 18, a trans girl who’s been through hell, but I’m not fucking done yet.

A soft thud snaps me out of my haze, and my brown eyes dart up, catching a shadow moving above. A roof window creaks open, moonlight spilling through, and Kemar—fucking Kemar—drops through like a goddamn panther, landing light on the concrete beside me, his 6’4” frame crouched, his dreads swinging, his dark eyes blazing with fury. He’s still in his baggy black jacket, white t-shirt, cargo pants, sneakers silent as he moves, his silver chain glinting as he kneels next to me, his big hands already working the ropes. “Likkle gyal, dem fuckin’ animals,” he curses in his thick patois, his voice low but shaking with rage. “Mi hear everyt’ing, Mira—mi sorry mi nuh come sooner, zeen.”

“Kemar,” I croak, my pouty lips trembling, my pale skin prickling as he frees my wrists, the ropes falling away, my long legs shaking as he unties my ankles. “They… they fucked me up, but I’m still here. Get me out, please.”

He helps me up, his strong arms steadying my wobbly frame, my perky tits heaving, my juicy ass sore as fuck as I stagger to my feet, my wavy hair falling over my high cheekbones. My blouse is shredded, my skirt torn, my thongs long gone, so Kemar hands me his jacket, draping it over my pale shoulders, covering my bruised tits, my tiny cock tucked against my pale thighs as I zip it up, the fabric swallowing my 5’6” frame. My slingbacks are trashed somewhere, so I’m barefoot, my long legs trembling, my brown eyes fierce despite the pain. “De window too high, likkle gyal,” Kemar says, glancing up, his dark eyes scanning the room. “We haffi fight out, zeen. Yuh good to stand?”

“Barely,” I mutter, my voice hoarse, my full lips curling with defiance. “But I’m not leaving without Aiden. Gimme that gun you offered.”

His eyes widen, but he nods, pulling the 9mm from his waistband, its weight cold and heavy in my pale hand, my fingers trembling but gripping it tight. “Yuh a bad gyal, Mira,” he says, drawing his own pistol, a sleek Glock, his dreads pulled back, his jaw set. “We buss dem up, free Aiden, an’ get de fuck out. Ready?”

“Ready,” I growl, my brown eyes burning, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck as we move to the door, my bare feet silent on the concrete, my shapely thighs flexing despite the ache, my perky tits hidden under the jacket, my plump ass throbbing but my resolve unbreakable.

We burst out of the room, guns raised, the hallway dark and narrow, crates stacked high on either side. Footsteps echo ahead, and three goons round the corner—mid-20s, Eastern European, packing pistols, their faces twisting as they see us. “Fucking shiksa!” one yells, a skinny fuck with a scar on his cheek, raising his gun. I dive behind a crate, my pale body scraping the wood, my long legs folding as I aim, my brown eyes narrowing. I’m no sharpshooter—just practiced at Kemar’s lake cabin—but I squeeze the trigger, the 9mm kicking hard, and the scar-faced guy drops, blood spraying, his pistol clattering. Kemar pops up, his Glock barking twice, dropping the other two—a bald prick and a guy with a buzzcut—their bodies crumpling, red pooling on the concrete.

“Move, likkle gyal!” Kemar shouts, his patois sharp, and we sprint down the hall, my bare feet slapping the floor, my wavy hair flying, my pale skin prickling with adrenaline, my tiny cock bouncing under the jacket, my perky tits jiggling with every step. We hit the stairs, descending fast, my long legs aching but pushing through, Kemar covering me as we reach the ground floor—the same maze of crates, rifles glinting inside, the air thick with gunpowder now.

The office door’s ahead, and six more goons are waiting—Viktor and his crew, armed to the teeth. The blond from the rape, his blue eyes wild, clutches a shotgun; the beefy guy, green eyes glaring, holds an assault rifle; the ponytail fuck, hazel eyes glinting, wields a pistol; the mohawk bastard, gray eyes cold, grips another pistol; the stocky guy with the broken nose, brown eyes raging, has a shotgun; and Viktor, his scarred face twisted, aims a sleek assault rifle. “You goy whore!” Viktor roars, his accent thick with supremacist hate. “Zion’s Blade ends you!”

Kemar dives behind a forklift, his Glock barking, dropping the mohawk guy with a headshot, blood splattering crates. I slide behind a stack of ammo boxes, my pale hands shaking, my 9mm raised, my brown eyes locked on the blond. I fire twice, my aim sloppy from the rape’s toll, but one bullet catches his shoulder, his shotgun blasting wild, shattering crates. Kemar’s a fucking machine, his shots precise—ponytail guy takes a bullet to the chest, collapsing; the stocky fucker’s knee explodes, his shotgun skidding as he screams.

I grit my teeth, my full pouty lips tight, my wavy hair plastered to my face, and pop up, firing again, clipping the beefy guy’s arm, his rifle spraying the ceiling. Kemar finishes him, two shots to the chest, his green eyes rolling back. Viktor’s rifle roars, bullets chewing my cover, wood splintering, and I duck low, my long legs curled, my pale skin scraped raw, my perky tits heaving under the jacket. “Fuck you, Viktor!” I scream, my voice raw, and fire blind, my bullet grazing his leg, making him stumble.

Kemar charges, his dreads swinging, his Glock blazing—two shots drop the broken-nose guy, blood gushing, and a final one catches Viktor between the eyes, his scarred face frozen as he falls, his rifle clattering, his gold chain gleaming in the flickering light. Silence hits, just my panting, Kemar’s heavy breaths, and the reek of blood and cordite, my brown eyes wide, my pale body trembling, my tiny cock throbbing with adrenaline, my juicy ass sore but my heart pounding with victory.

We sprint to the office, my bare feet stinging, my wavy hair bouncing, my pale hands clutching the 9mm. Aiden’s still in the back room, tied to the chair, his green eyes lighting up as he sees me. “Mira, fuck, you came,” he croaks, blood dripping from his busted lip, his skinny frame shaking. Kemar cuts him free, his knife flashing, and I haul Aiden up, my long legs steadying his wobbly ass, my perky tits brushing his torn hoodie, my brown eyes fierce despite the pain.

“We’re out, now,” I snap, my full lips tight, and we stumble through the warehouse, my pale skin glowing in the dim light, my shapely thighs burning as we dodge crates, Kemar leading, his Glock raised. We hit the lot, the night air cold on my bruised tits, my plump ass aching under the jacket, and spot an SUV—black, Zion’s Blade’s ride. Kemar hotwires it, the engine roaring, and we pile in, Aiden slumping in the back, me shotgun, my long legs curled, my wavy hair a mess, my brown eyes scanning for threats.

We peel out, tires screeching, and race back to our cars—my E21 and Kemar’s DeVille parked by the deli, untouched. Kemar hops out, his dreads swinging, his dark eyes warm but hard. “Yuh good, likkle gyal?” he asks, his patois soft now, his big hand brushing my pale cheek, my high cheekbones bruised but defiant.

“I’ll live,” I mutter, my pouty lips curling, my perky tits heaving under the jacket. “Thanks, Benga. You’re a fucking king.”

“Anytime, Mira,” he says, climbing into his DeVille, the V8 growling as he pulls away, taillights fading. I shove Aiden into my E21’s passenger seat, his skinny frame slumping, his green eyes guilty as I slide behind the wheel, my bare feet on the pedals, my long legs aching, my plump ass sore as fuck against the leather, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck, my brown eyes burning with rage and exhaustion.

“You fucking idiot,” I growl, the engine roaring as I speed toward my apartment, my pale hands gripping the wheel, my perky tits bouncing under Kemar’s jacket, my tiny cock tucked tight, still throbbing from the ordeal. “You were in rehab, Aiden. I fucking put you there. Why the hell are you out, scamming mafia pricks?”

He winces, his busted lip trembling, his green eyes darting. “Mira, I’m sorry,” he croaks, voice weak. “I didn’t wanna fuck up. Jamal… that dealer who works for Darius? He blackmailed me, said he’d leak your Slut Crown Showdown video online—your porn from that fucked-up contest. I couldn’t let him ruin you, so I did the deal with Zion’s Blade, tried to pass off fake coke to get him off my back.”

My heart twists, warmth mixing with fury, my brown eyes softening under long lashes, my full lips parting. “You dumbass,” I whisper, my voice cracking, my pale skin flushing. “You did that for me? Fuck, Aiden, your loyalty’s gonna kill us both.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, head down, his black hair falling over his bruised face, his skinny hands shaking. “I just… I love you, Mira. You’re my family.”

I sigh, my wavy hair brushing my high cheekbones, my pale hands steady on the wheel as the city blurs past, neon lights reflecting off my E21’s hood. “I love you too, you junkie fuck,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “But you’re going back to rehab tomorrow, no bullshit. I need you alive, not pulling this crap.”

He nods, silent, and I drive on, my long legs working the pedals, my plump ass aching, my perky tits bruised under the jacket, my tiny cock finally calm, my brown eyes heavy but sharp, my full pouty lips curled in a tired smirk. The apartment looms ahead, a shitty haven, but mine. I need to crash, to heal, to wash the cum and blood off my pale skin, to untangle my wavy hair, to rest my sore ass and battered tits. Tomorrow, I’ll drag Aiden’s sorry ass back to rehab, then figure out how to keep my hustle alive without Jack’s gig. I’m Mira, fucked-up but unbreakable, and I’ll burn this city down before I let it break me.