M๐ขr๐š’๐ฌ ๐ƒo๐งk๐žy S๐กo๐ฐ ๐ƒe๐›u๐ญ: A R๐จa๐ ๐“r๐ขp R๐žv๐žl๐št๐ขo๐ง


The sun’s a bitch, blazing down on my E21 as I tear through the highway, the engine purring like it knows it’s my fuckin’ baby. I’m rocking a cropped white tank that’s more tease than shirt, hugging my small, perky tits so tight you can see my nipples poking through if you stare long enough—and trust me, people do. My denim cutoffs are short as hell, frayed edges riding up my plump, juicy ass, leaving my long, toned legs bare to soak up the heat. My tiny cock and balls are tucked snug in a black thong, hidden under the denim, and my ankle boots—scuffed black leather—work the pedals smooth, my shapely thighs flexing with every shift. My dark, wavy hair’s whipping wild in the wind, spilling past my shoulders, brushing my collarbone, and my pale ivory skin’s glowing, catching the light just right. I’m Mira, 18, a trans girl who’s owned this body for two years—5’6”, 125 lbs of pure, slutty chaos, with a heart-shaped face that cuts deep—high cheekbones sharp, straight nose proud, full pouty lips glossed pink, and brown eyes with lashes so long they’d make a porn star jealous.

Laura’s sprawled in the passenger seat, blonde curls bouncing like she’s in some fuckin’ shampoo ad, green eyes glinting with that cheerleader spark that’s equal parts annoying and hot. Her flowy sundress—yellow, dotted with flowers—keeps fluttering up, flashing her tanned thighs every time she leans out to scream some dumb shit into the wind. “Mira, you’re driving like a goddamn maniac!” she yells over the radio, some pop-punk trash blaring loud enough to rattle the windows.

“Good!” I shout back, smirking, my full pouty lips curling as I crank the wheel, weaving past a slow-ass truck. “This trip’s us, babe—no boys, no rules, just two rowdy bitches tearing it up!”

She cackles, kicking her sandals off, bare feet up on the dash. “Mark’s stuck kissing his dad’s ass at that shop—poor fucker’s missing out. Should’ve seen his face when I said it’s just us girls.”

“His loss,” I say, brown eyes flashing under long lashes as I glance at her, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty neck. “He’d probably cream his pants watching us right now—me driving my baby, you looking like a slutty sunflower.”

“Fuck you,” she laughs, tossing a crumpled chip bag at me, missing wide. “You’re the slut here—how many farm boys you planning to bang this trip?”

“As many as it takes,” I fire back, grinning wicked. “Been too long since I got wrecked proper—my ass is starving.”

The road’s endless, asphalt shimmering in the heat, fields stretching out like a fuckin’ postcard—corn, wheat, whatever the hell grows out here. My E21 eats it up, silver paint gleaming, and we trade turns driving, swapping seats at gas stations where Laura pumps fuel in her flip-flops, sundress riding up, while I stretch my long legs, pale skin prickling in the sun, my plump ass swaying as I grab sodas from the cooler. We’re loud—screaming lyrics, flicking off truckers who honk, laughing like idiots when some redneck flips us back. My tiny cock twitches in my thong every time the wind catches my cutoffs just right, but I’m too buzzed on freedom to care.

“Remember that time you sucked off that biker in Reno?” Laura says, taking the wheel, her green eyes glinting mischief as she peels out, gravel spitting.

“Fuck yeah,” I laugh, leaning back, my perky tits bouncing with the bumps. “Dude had a beard like Santa and a cock like a goddamn tree trunk—worth every scrape on my knees.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “You’re a fuckin’ animal, Mira. I’d kill to be that shameless.”

“Practice, babe,” I say, winking, my pouty lips teasing the straw of my soda. “Start small—flash a trucker, see where it goes.”

The banter flows easy, the miles piling up, my wavy hair a tangled mess by the time dusk hits. We’re somewhere deep in farm country—flat, dusty, the kind of nowhere you’d miss if you blinked. “Let’s crash here,” Laura says, nodding at a flickering neon sign: Rusty’s Bar. “Looks like a dive—our kinda place.”

“Fuckin’ perfect,” I agree, pulling my E21 into the gravel lot, tires crunching loud. The bar’s a squat brick shithole, windows grimy, the air thick with cigarette smoke and sweat as we push inside. It’s packed—farmhands mostly, late 20s to 30s, a mix of white guys with sunburned necks and Mexican dudes with calloused hands, all eyeing us like fresh meat. We’re 18, can’t buy shit, but that’s never stopped me.

I strut to the bar, my cutoffs riding high, plump ass jiggling with every step, and lean over the counter, locking eyes with a tall Mexican guy—early 30s, mustache thick as a broom, dark eyes raking over my pale skin. “Hey, guapo,” I purr, tossing my wavy hair back, my perky tits straining the tank. “Buy a girl a drink?”

He grins, gold tooth flashing. “Claro, mami. What you want?”

“Two tequilas,” I say, my full lips smirking, brown eyes glinting under long lashes. Laura slides up beside me, her sundress brushing my arm, and he pours fast, sliding the shots over with a wink. We clink glasses, slam them back, the burn hitting my throat like a fist, my tiny cock twitching as I gasp, pale chest heaving.

“Another!” Laura yells, giggling, and soon we’re three rounds deep, flirting hard—me batting my lashes at a wiry white guy with a crew cut, Laura giggling as a stocky Mexican dude brushes her thigh. They’re buying, we’re drinking, and my head’s buzzing, my juicy ass swaying every time I lean in to whisper some bullshit tease.

Then I catch it—two white farmhands at a table, mid-20s, scruffy beards, flannel shirts unbuttoned over stained tees, muttering low. “Donkey show tonight,” one drawls, voice thick with rural grit. “Reckon it’ll be a helluva sight.”

My ears perk, my heart kicking up a notch. I lean over, my pale hand on his arm, nails digging just enough. “What the fuck’s a donkey show, cowboy?”

He smirks, hazel eyes glinting under a trucker hat. “Pretty little things like you gettin’ fucked by donkeys, darlin’. Out at Juan’s farm—folks pay to watch.”

“No fuckin’ way,” Laura says, green eyes wide, but I’m already hooked, my tiny cock stirring in my thong, heat creeping up my pale thighs. “Tell me more,” I say, voice low, pouty lips parting.

“Juan’s this Mexican fella,” his buddy chimes in, a lanky guy with a patchy beard and brown eyes. “Sets it up in his barn—girls take donkey cock, crowd goes wild. Big money.”

“Take us,” I say, firm, my brown eyes locking on his, lashes fluttering just enough to reel him in. Laura grabs my wrist, her nails biting hard. “Mira, are you fuckin’ nuts? That’s some freaky shit.”

“Exactly,” I grin, turning to her, my high cheekbones sharp in the bar light. “Come on, Laura—it’s a story for the ages. No one’ll know, just us bitches out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere.”

She’s shaking her head, curls bouncing, but her flush says she’s curious. “I don’t know, Mira—it’s fuckin’ weird.”

“It’s fuckin’ hot,” I counter, leaning close, my breath on her ear. “You telling me you wouldn’t get off watching them take it? Live a little.”

She bites her lip, green eyes darting, then sighs. “Fine, but I’m blaming you if it’s a disaster.”

“Deal,” I laugh, kissing her cheek quick, then turn to the farmhands. “Let’s roll, boys.”

They pile us into their beat-up truck—rusty blue, seats cracked, smelling like hay and motor oil. I’m sandwiched between them, my plump ass sinking into the bench, long legs pressed against theirs, while Laura’s up front, sundress hiked, giggling as the lanky guy drives. The road’s dirt, bumpy as hell, my perky tits bouncing under my tank with every jolt, my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty face. My gut’s churning—excitement, nerves, and a horny ache I haven’t felt since that stallion at my uncle’s place split me open months back.

We pull up to a sprawling farm—big barn, lights spilling out, trucks and beaters parked haphazard in the dust. The air’s thick with voices, shouts, the hum of a crowd ready to explode. Inside, it’s a goddamn zoo—50, maybe 60 people, men mostly, some women, white and Mexican mixed, all ages from 20s to grizzled 50s, packed tight around a makeshift stage in the barn’s center. Hay bales are scattered, a bar’s set up in the corner pouring cheap tequila, and the smell—sweat, livestock, and raw anticipation—hits me like a slap.

But something’s off. People are pissed—grumbling, fists clenching, a few yelling in Spanish. “¿Dรณnde estรก la chica?” “Ain’t no show yet!” “Gonna tear this shithole down!” I weave through, my long legs brushing rough jeans and sweaty arms, my shapely thighs flexing as I push closer, Laura trailing, her green eyes wide but curious.

“What’s the deal?” I ask a wiry Mexican guy, 30s, with a scarred cheek and dark eyes, sipping a beer.

La estrella—the girl—she no show,” he mutters, accent thick. “Juan’s fucked if he don’t find someone quick.”

That’s when I see him—Juan, the owner, mid-40s, Mexican, stocky as hell, thick mustache, dark eyes darting like a trapped animal. He’s pacing near the stage, wiping sweat off his brow, muttering, “¡Mierda, mierda! La pinche muchacha no viene!” Then he spots me, freezes, and his face lights up like I’m the second fucking coming.

¡Oye, mami! You—c’mere, quick!” he calls, waving me over, his voice a mix of panic and hope.

I strut up, boots kicking dust, my plump ass swaying in those cutoffs, perky tits bouncing just enough. “What’s up, jefe?” I say, smirking, my full pouty lips curling.

He grabs my pale arm, pulling me close, his breath hot with tequila. “You’re the hottest chingona in this town—¡mira ese culo! My girl bailed, crowd’s gonna riot. I need a star—someone pretty, someone tough. You fuck the donkeys, I give you a third of the night’s take.”

Laura’s right there, green eyes blazing, yanking me back. “Mira, no fuckin’ way—are you insane? We’re leaving!”

But I’m already buzzing, my brown eyes locked on Juan, my tiny cock twitching hard. “Make it fifty percent,” I say, voice steady, tossing my wavy hair. “And heads-up—I’m trans. Tiny cock, balls, the works. That a problem?”

His jaw drops, then he grins wide, gold tooth flashing. “¡No, no—mejor aรบn! That’s fuckin’ gold—unique show. Fifty percent, hecho. You’re savin’ my ass, mami.”

Laura’s fuming, dragging me aside, her nails digging into my pale skin. “Mira, this is beyond fucked—you’re not seriously doing this!”

I grab her shoulders, my high cheekbones sharp in the barn light, brown eyes boring into hers. “Laura, listen—it’s one night, miles from home, our dirty little secret. I’m so fuckin’ horny I’d climb that stage for free, but why not cash in? Work the crowd with the other girls—suck some dick, make some bucks. It’ll be a goddamn blast.”

She’s trembling, thighs pressed tight, breath shallow. “You’re crazy,” she mutters, but her flush says she’s turned on. “If we do this, it stays here—swear it.”

“Swear,” I say, kissing her forehead, my pouty lips soft. “You’re my ride-or-die, babe.”

Juan claps his hands, shouting, “¡Venga, chicas! Dressing room—move!” We follow, my long legs steady, Laura’s flip-flops slapping the dirt, and I’m already dripping, ready to fuck this night into legend.

The dressing room’s a cramped, sweaty shithole—mirrors cracked, a rack of gaudy costumes reeking of stale perfume and hay. Juan shoves us in, barking, “¡Rรกpido, chicas! Get slutty—crowd’s waitin’!” My cropped tank’s sticking to my perky tits, nipples stiff from the tequila buzz, and my denim cutoffs are damp where my plump ass presses the fabric, my tiny cock twitching in that black thong. Laura’s beside me, green eyes darting like a spooked deer, her sundress already half-off, revealing a lacy bra and panties she’s peeling down with shaky hands.

I yank off my tank, tossing it to the dirt floor, my small tits bouncing free, pink nipples hardening in the stale air. The cutoffs follow, zipper snagging briefly on my pale hip before I shimmy them down my long, toned legs, kicking them aside with my boots. My thong’s next, sliding off to bare my tiny cock and balls—hard, leaking a drop onto my shapely thigh. I grab a red frilly crop top from the rack—barely a scrap, lacing up the front, leaving my tits half-out, nipples peeking through the gaps. The skirt’s black and short, flaring over my juicy ass, paired with thigh-high stockings—black, gartered, clinging tight to my pale skin. I lace up some strappy heels Juan tosses me, my wavy hair spilling wild as I adjust, brown eyes glinting in the mirror under long lashes, full pouty lips curling into a smirk.

Laura’s in a matching getup—green crop top, nipples teasing the fabric, a red skirt barely covering her ass, stockings hugging her tanned legs. “Fuck, Mira,” she mutters, brushing her blonde curls back, green eyes wide but sparking. “We look like whores.”

“Hot whores,” I correct, winking, my heart-shaped face tilting, high cheekbones sharp in the dim light. “Ready to own this shit?”

She nods, shaky but game, and we strut out, heels clicking, the barn’s roar hitting us like a wall. It’s chaos—60-plus bodies packed tight, men hollering in English and Spanish, women giggling or glaring, the air thick with sweat, booze, and raw fuckin’ hunger. The stage is center—wood planks, a padded mat, hay bales stacked around, spotlights glaring hot. My gut’s churning, horny as hell, my tiny cock stiff under the skirt, my plump ass swaying as I move.

Juan’s on the mic, voice booming over the din. “¡Seรฑoras y seรฑores! Tonight, we got somethin’ especial—the sexiest shemale on this fuckin’ planet, ¡Mira la Magnรญfica! She’s takin’ on three donkeys, ¡para su placer!” The crowd explodes—whistles, cheers, fists pounding tables, some asshole yelling, “¡Dรกmelo, puta!” I flash a grin, my pouty lips parting, brown eyes scanning faces through long lashes, and strut to the stage, heels steady, wavy hair bouncing.

Laura’s off to the side, green eyes flicking to me as a wiry Mexican guy—30s, scarred cheek, dark eyes—grabs her arm, whispering something. She smirks, leading him to a shadowed corner, her hips swaying, and I know she’s diving in.

The handler’s up first—a skinny white guy, 20s, greasy hair, bored as fuck—leading the first donkey. It’s wiry, gray, with a pink cock dangling—12 inches, slick, not too thick. “On your knees, darlin’,” he drawls, rural twang thick, and I drop to the mat, hands sinking into the padding, knees spread wide. My skirt flips up, stockings stretching as I arch, the handler yanking my thong aside to bare my tight hole, my tiny cock dangling free, leaking onto the mat.

“Fuckin’ give it to me,” I say loud, voice husky, and the crowd hushes, then roars as the donkey mounts me, front legs framing my pale shoulders, cock sliding against my hole. The handler guides it, and it thrusts in—smooth, deep, stretching me just right.

“Fuck!” I moan, loud and raw, the burn perfect, filling my ass as it starts pumping, hips bucking steady. My perky tits jiggle under the crop top, nipples scraping the lace, my wavy hair falling in my face as I shove back, matching every thrust, full pouty lips gasping open. “Harder, you little shit!” I yell, my long legs trembling, shapely thighs flexing, pale skin flushing red.

¡Mira cรณmo le gusta!” Juan shouts, and the crowd’s feral—guys cheering, some jerking under tables, a woman screaming, “¡Fรณllala!” The donkey’s relentless, cock sliding slick and fast, my juicy ass bouncing with every hit, cum from my last stallion memory dripping in my mind. I glance over—Laura’s on her knees in the corner, blonde curls bobbing as she sucks off the scarred guy, his hands tangled in her hair, her green eyes flicking to me, wide and hot.

“Fuck, pound me,” I groan, voice echoing, feeling it hit deep, my tiny cock bouncing hard, pre-cum stringing down to the mat. The donkey speeds up, slamming in, balls slapping my pale thighs, and I’m moaning like a bitch in heat, my plump ass quaking, red from the stretch. It cums quick—hot, thick spurts flooding my ass, spilling out around its cock, dripping down my stockings as it pulls off, the handler dragging it back, muttering, “Good girl.”

I’m panting, hole twitching, cum leaking down my pale legs, but I’m nowhere near done. “Next!” I yell, staying on all fours, arching sharper, my skirt hiked higher, thong tangled at my knee now. The handler brings the second donkey—bigger, gray-brown, cock 12 inches, thicker, veiny as fuck, glistening with pre-cum.

“Take it slow, sugar,” he drawls, but I shake my head, brown eyes blazing through long lashes. “Fuck slow—ram it in.”

He smirks, lining it up, and it mounts me, heavier, front legs digging into the mat beside me. Its cock presses my hole, stretching wider, burning hot as it sinks in deep, splitting me open. “Shit, that’s big!” I grunt, voice raw, feeling every veiny inch stretch my ass, my tiny cock throbbing, dripping more. The crowd’s chanting, “¡Mรกs, mรกs!” and I give it, rocking back hard, taking it all, my perky tits bouncing wild, nipples scraping the crop top’s edge.

“Fuckin’ wreck me,” I scream, wavy hair sticking to my sweaty face, my pale skin slick as it thrusts deeper, hitting spots that make my head spin. Laura’s back in view, leading a stocky white guy—40s, redneck hat, gut spilling over his belt—to a hay bale corner, her skirt up, his hand between her legs as she straddles him, green eyes locked on me, lips parted.

The donkey’s rougher, hips slamming, cock tearing into me, my juicy ass rippling with every thrust. “Spank it, you fuck!” I yell at the handler, and he obliges—crack—his hand slamming my pale cheek, red blooming fast, then crack on the other, my ass jiggling like a goddamn wave. “Yes, fuck!” I moan, hoarse, feeling it build, and it cums—harder than the first, flooding my ass, hot cum gushing out, soaking my stockings, pooling under me as it pulls off, snorting.

I’m wrecked but ravenous, hole gaping, cum dripping everywhere. “Bring the big bastard,” I rasp, and the handler nods, dragging out the third donkey—a fuckin’ beast, black, 16 inches of thick, blunt cock swaying heavy. “On your back, darlin’,” he says, pointing to a hay bale, and I roll over, sprawling across it, legs spread wide, heels planted on the edges, skirt bunched at my waist, crop top shoved up to bare my perky tits, pink nipples stiff.

The crowd’s losing it—guys shouting, “¡Dรกle duro!” women gasping, some jerking off openly now. The donkey’s led over, its massive cock dangling, and the handler guides it, pressing the tip to my slick, gaping hole. “Slow,” I whisper, but it doesn’t fuckin’ listen—thrusts in hard, brutal, and I scream, “Fuck, it’s huge!” My ass burns, stretched obscene, but I adjust fast, pain melting into raw pleasure as it fucks me deep, hips bucking wild.

“Goddamn, pound that hole!” I yell, wrapping my long legs around its sides, pulling it in, my tiny cock bouncing on my pale stomach, leaking steady, pre-cum smearing my skin. My wavy hair’s splayed on the hay, brown eyes half-shut, lashes wet with sweat as it slams me, my plump ass sliding on the bale, perky tits jiggling with every hit. Laura’s sucking another guy now—Mexican, 30s, mustache, dark eyes—her blonde head bobbing fast in a corner, his hands gripping her curls, her green eyes flicking to me, hot and dazed.

“Fuck me, you big bastard,” I moan, voice shot, feeling it hit my core, my pale skin slick with sweat and cum. The donkey’s relentless, cock tearing me apart, balls slapping my ass, and I’m screaming, “More, fuck, more!” It cums like a goddamn firehose—hot, thick, filling me to the brim, gushing out around its shaft, soaking the hay, my stockings, my pale thighs as it snorts and pulls off, the handler dragging it away.

I’m a fuckin’ mess—hole gaping wide, cum everywhere, skirt ruined, crop top torn, stockings ripped, pale skin flushed and sticky, my tiny cock limp but leaking, my perky tits heaving as I pant, brown eyes dazed but sharp. The crowd’s deafening—cheers, whistles, some asshole yelling, “¡Otra vez!” Juan’s back on the mic, grinning wide. “¡Y ahora, una subasta! Highest bidder fucks Mira la Magnรญfica on stage—¡vamos!

Bids fly fast—$100 from a redneck, $200 from a Mexican guy, $500 from some drunk chick—then two college guys step up, pushing through. Michael—Black, 6’2”, built like a fuckin’ linebacker, shaved head, dark eyes glinting, football jersey stretched tight. Brad—white, 6’0”, blond, blue-eyed, leaner, cocky smirk, in a frat tee. “$1000,” Michael booms, voice deep as hell. “Both of us.”

I sit up slow, smirking, my full pouty lips smeared with sweat, brown eyes locking on Juan. “Fuck yeah,” I nod, and he shouts, “¡Vendido! $1000 for the pair!”

They climb on stage, stripping fast—Michael’s got a 10-inch cock, thick as my wrist, veiny, dark, tip glistening; Brad’s rocking a 7-incher, slim, curved, pale, leaking pre-cum. “On your knees, you fuckin’ slut,” Michael growls, and I drop fast, heels scraping the planks, skirt bunched, crop top hanging loose. He grabs my wavy hair, yanking my head back hard, and shoves his monster cock into my mouth, stretching my full pouty lips wide, fucking my throat deep and slow.

“Suck that big black cock,” he snarls, hips rocking, his thick shaft sliding past my tongue, gagging me hard, drool spilling fast, soaking my perky tits, dripping down my pale chest. My brown eyes water, lashes wet as I claw his thighs, spit pooling on the stage, my tiny cock twitching under the skirt. “Fuckin’ choke on it,” he grunts, shoving deeper, balls brushing my chin, my throat tightening around him as I moan, muffled and raw.

Brad’s behind me, spanking my plump ass—crack—his hand slamming my pale cheek, red flaring hot. “Goddamn, look at this juicy fuckin’ ass,” he groans, spanking again—crack—left, then right, my ass jiggling wild. He spits on my gaping hole—hot, thick—and slides his 7-incher in, smooth and fast, hitting my prostate hard. “Loose as fuck after those donkeys,” he laughs, but he pounds me, my pale skin bruising, my long legs trembling in those heels.

“Fuck, wreck that hole,” I gasp when Michael pulls out for a breath, drool stringing from my pouty lips to his tip, my voice wrecked. He smirks, shoving back in, fucking my throat relentless, while Brad drills my ass, spanking me—crack—my juicy cheeks quaking, red marks stacking. My tiny cock’s bouncing, leaking steady, smearing my pale stomach as the crowd roars, “¡Dรกle, dรกle!

They switch—Michael yanks me up by my hair, my long legs wobbling, and lifts me, my pale thighs wrapping his waist as he faces me, slamming his 10-incher into my ass. “Take this fuckin’ cock,” he growls, bouncing me hard, my perky tits pressed against his chest, nipples scraping his jersey, my wavy hair flying wild. My hole’s stretched obscene, gripping him tight, and I’m moaning, “Fuck, deeper!” my brown eyes locked on his, lashes fluttering.

Brad steps up, spitting on his hard cock, and slides his 7-incher in beside Michael’s—double-fucking my ass, the stretch burning hot, splitting me wide. “Goddamn, you’re a greedy slut,” Brad grunts, syncing with Michael, their cocks grinding inside me, my plump ass quaking between them, my tiny cock leaking on Michael’s abs. “Fuck, too much!” I scream, voice breaking, but they don’t stop, pounding me raw, pain and pleasure crashing together, my pale skin slick with sweat, my shapely thighs trembling hard.

“Take it, you filthy cunt,” Michael snarls, spanking my ass—crack—his big hand bruising me, my juicy cheek rippling, red and raw. Brad grabs my wavy hair, yanking my head back, and I’m screaming, “Fuck me, fuck me!” my hole clenching, cum from the donkeys still dripping out, mixing with their thrusts.

For the finish, they drop me back on the hay bale, flat on my back, legs spread wide, heels dangling off the edges. Michael kneels between my pale thighs, lifting my long legs over his shoulders, slamming his 10-incher in deep, my plump ass sliding on the hay with every thrust. “Fuck this tight little hole,” he groans, pounding me hard, my perky tits bouncing free, nipples pink and raw, my tiny cock smearing pre-cum across my stomach.

Brad climbs up, kneeling by my head, grabbing my wavy hair, shoving his 7-incher into my mouth. “Choke on this, you nasty bitch,” he snarls, fucking my throat slow and deep, my full pouty lips stretched obscene, drool spilling down my chin, soaking my pale chest. My brown eyes water, lashes wet as I gag, his balls slapping my face, my throat tightening around him.

“Fuckin’ wreck her,” someone yells from the crowd, and they do—Michael slamming my ass, Brad choking my throat—my pale body rocking hard, my plump ass throbbing, my perky tits heaving. “Gonna cum all over this slut,” Brad grunts, pulling out, stroking fast, and he unloads—hot, thick ropes blasting my face, streaking my high cheekbones, splattering my pouty lips, matting my wavy hair. Michael thrusts deep one last time, his 10-incher pulsing, flooding my ass with cum, spilling out around his shaft, soaking my pale thighs, dripping onto the hay.

I’m a goddamn disaster—crop top shredded, skirt trashed, stockings torn to shit, heels scuffed, my pale skin bruised, sweaty, cum-soaked from head to toe, my plump ass gaping, my tiny cock limp and spent, my brown eyes dazed but glinting defiant through the mess. The crowd’s screaming, Juan’s grinning like a bastard, and Laura stumbles over, her green crop top askew, red skirt hiked, green eyes wide and glassy, cum on her chin. “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic, Mira,” she pants, helping me up, her hands shaky but warm.

“Worth every goddamn second,” I rasp, voice shot, smirking weak as Juan hands me a fat stack—$3,000, crisp and heavy. “You’re a fuckin’ legend, mami,” he says, clapping my shoulder. “Stay a couple days—guests, on me.”

I nod, too wrecked to argue, and Laura laughs, dazed. “Fuck it, why not?”

Next morning, we’re up, showered, in borrowed jeans and flannels—mine tight, hugging my perky tits and plump ass, Laura’s looser, her blonde curls tamed in a ponytail. Juan’s got horses saddled, and we ride out, my long legs steady in the stirrups, brown eyes squinting under the sun, full pouty lips smiling as we laugh, the ache in my ass a sweet fuckin’ memory. We sightsee—old barns, dusty trails, a creek where Laura splashes me, her green eyes bright, the farm town sprawling quiet around us.

By noon, we’re back at my E21, packed and ready, cash stuffed in my pocket. Juan waves from the porch, grinning. “Anytime you want donkey cock up that fine ass, mami, you come back!”

I blow him a kiss, smirking, my wavy hair bouncing as I slide into the driver’s seat, pale hands gripping the wheel. Laura climbs in, sundress back on, grinning like a fool. “Next adventure?” she asks, green eyes sparking.

“Whatever the fuck we want,” I laugh, pouty lips curling wide as I peel out, gravel spitting, the open road calling us home—two rowdy bitches with a secret and a wad of cash, unstoppable as hell.

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