The mirror in my cramped Dhaka apartment reflects a version of me that’s both familiar and a carefully crafted illusion. My shalwar-kameez, a vibrant emerald with gold embroidery, hugs my narrow waist and flares over my wide hips, the fabric whispering against my shapely thighs as I adjust my dupatta. The dupatta, a sheer cascade of cream with delicate zari work, drapes over my shoulder, catching the glow of the ring lights I’ve set up for today’s shoot. My long, dark hair falls in soft waves, framing my heart-shaped face, where my full lips curve into a practiced smile. I slip on my favorite high heels, the click of them against the tiled floor a small rebellion in this vibrant, chaotic city. At 5’6”, I feel tall enough to command attention, but it’s the hourglass curve of my body—small breasts, plump ass, and long legs—that I know will hold it.
I grab my phone, angling it to catch the light just right, and record a quick reel, twirling to show off the outfit. My followers—thousands of them—will eat it up, flooding the comments with heart-eyes emojis and requests for styling tips. They see Nusrat, the glamorous influencer, not the 18-year-old trans girl who moved from a small town to chase dreams in Dhaka’s urban sprawl. They don’t know about the secret gigs I take to make ends meet, the ones that happen in the shadows of my colorful apartment, far from the ring lights and filters.
As I upload the reel, my phone buzzes with a notification from a private platform I use for my side work. It’s a message from someone named Kamrul, a name I vaguely recognize from my Instagram comments. He’s been liking my posts for weeks, always polite, always generous with compliments. His message is formal at first, praising my latest saree look, but it shifts quickly: “I’d love to meet you in person, Nusrat. I’m a businessman, based in Gulshan. I’d make it worth your time—financially.” He names a sum that makes my breath catch, enough to cover a month’s rent and then some. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I’m no stranger to these arrangements, but each one feels like a tightrope walk—thrilling, dangerous, and necessary. My fashion line, still a stack of sketches and fabric swatches, needs funding. This could be a step closer.
I agree to meet him at his apartment tomorrow night, my heart pounding as I type out the details. The rest of the day blurs—editing the reel, responding to comments, and sketching a new design, a fusion of traditional Bangladeshi embroidery and modern cuts. But Kamrul’s offer lingers, a mix of dread and anticipation coiling in my chest.
* * *
The next evening, I’m in Gulshan, Dhaka’s upscale heart, where glass towers loom over manicured streets. My heels click on the marble floor of Kamrul’s building as I ride the elevator to his penthouse. I’ve chosen a deep burgundy shalwar-kameez, the kameez tailored to accentuate my curves, the dupatta pinned to highlight the swell of my small breasts. My dark hair is loose, cascading over my shoulders, and my makeup is subtle but sharp—winged eyeliner, a touch of gloss on my full lips.
Kamrul opens the door, and I take him in. He’s about 45, with a broad build softened by age, his dark hair peppered with gray. His face is weathered but handsome, with deep-set eyes and a strong jaw. He’s dressed in a crisp kurta, the kind that screams wealth without trying too hard. “Nusrat,” he says, his voice warm, almost reverent. “You’re even more stunning in person.”
I smile, my influencer mask slipping into place. “Thank you, Kamrul bhai. Your place is incredible.” And it is—floor-to-ceiling windows, plush furniture, and a view of Dhaka’s glittering skyline. We sit on a leather couch, sipping mango lassi he’s prepared, and talk about my content. His questions are thoughtful, like he’s studied every post, and I find myself relaxing, my guard lowering.
“You have a gift,” he says, leaning closer, his knee brushing mine. “The way you move, the way you present yourself—it’s magnetic.” His hand rests on my thigh, and I feel the shift, the air thickening with intent. My pulse races, but I hold his gaze, my lips parting slightly.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say, my voice steady despite the churn in my stomach. “I’m trans. I wasn’t born a woman, but this is who I am.” I brace for rejection, for the deal to fall apart, but Kamrul’s eyes widen only briefly before darkening with something else—desire, raw and unfiltered.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice low. “You’re perfect.” He leans in, and before I can process his reaction, his lips crash against mine.
Kamrul’s kiss is a storm, his lips firm and unyielding, carrying the sharp tang of mint laced with the faint sweetness of the mango lassi we shared earlier. My body responds instinctively, melting into him, my hands finding the broad expanse of his shoulders, fingers curling into the crisp fabric of his kurta. The muscle beneath is solid, a reminder of his strength, and my heart races as his hands grip my hips, digging into the soft flesh through my burgundy shalwar-kameez. I gasp into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the urgency of his kiss, as he lifts me with effortless power, setting me on the edge of his plush leather couch. My dupatta, a delicate cascade of cream and gold, slips from my shoulder, pooling on the cool leather, and my kameez rides up, exposing the smooth, creamy curve of my thighs, their shapely length catching the soft glow of the penthouse lights.
“Goddamn, look at you,” Kamrul growls, his voice low and gravelly, thick with want. His hands slide under my kameez, tracing the narrow dip of my waist, his calloused fingers sparking heat against my skin. The fabric bunches as he yanks it upward, and I raise my arms, helping him peel it off, revealing my small breasts, the nipples already pebbled under his intense gaze. My breath hitches as the cool air hits my bare torso, and I kick off my high heels, the clatter of them against the marble floor a sharp contrast to the heavy silence between us. My shalwar is next, and I shimmy out of it, the silky fabric sliding down my long legs to pool at my feet, leaving me in nothing but black lace panties that cling to the plump swell of my ass.
Kamrul’s eyes roam my body, lingering on the generous curve of my hips, the tight plane of my stomach, and then lower, to the unmistakable bulge in my panties where my 3-inch cock and tight balls press against the delicate lace. He freezes, his breath catching, and for a moment, I brace myself, the familiar fear of rejection tightening my chest. “Shit,” he says, but there’s no disgust in his tone—only awe, raw and unguarded. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Nusrat.” His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, pulling them down with agonizing slowness, the lace dragging against my skin until my cock springs free, small but rigid, the tip glistening with precum. My balls, tight and sensitive, nestle close to my body, and Kamrul’s gaze darkens, his hand wrapping around my length, stroking with a gentle, exploratory touch that makes me shudder.
I moan, the sound muffled as he kisses me again, deeper now, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming every inch. His strokes are slow, deliberate, his thumb circling the head of my cock, spreading the slickness, and I arch into him, my hands gripping his arms. The kiss breaks, and I slide off the couch, my knees hitting the soft rug as I position myself between his legs. His kurta is half-unbuttoned, revealing a broad chest dusted with coarse hair, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. My fingers tremble as I tug at his pants, pulling them down to free his cock—thick, about seven inches, with a gentle curve and a flushed, glistening tip. The sight makes my mouth water, and I lean in, my tongue flicking over the head, savoring the salty tang of his precum. Kamrul groans, a low, guttural sound, his hand tangling in my long, dark hair, the strands slipping through his fingers as he guides me closer.
I take him into my mouth, slow at first, my lips stretching around his girth, my tongue swirling along the underside of his shaft. The weight of him is heavy, filling, and I bob my head, teasing him with shallow sucks, letting my tongue dance over the sensitive ridge. His hips jerk, a small, involuntary thrust, and I feel the power shift—I’m on my knees, but I’m in control, dictating the rhythm. “Fuck, Nusrat,” he grunts, his grip tightening in my hair, pulling just enough to send a spark of pain-pleasure down my spine. I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, letting him slide in until my nose brushes the coarse hair at his base, the musky scent of him filling my senses. My own cock throbs, untouched, aching as I focus on his pleasure, my hands gripping his thighs, nails digging into the firm muscle.
Kamrul’s patience frays, and he starts to move, fucking my mouth with controlled, deliberate thrusts. Each push sends a jolt of heat through me, my throat stretching to accommodate him, spit dripping down my chin as I moan around his cock, the vibration making him curse. “Shit, you’re so fucking good,” he growls, his voice thick with lust, his hips finding a rhythm that tests my limits. I gag softly, the sound muffled, but I don’t pull back, letting him use my mouth, my lips slick and swollen. My fingers dig into his thighs harder, anchoring me as I suck him deeper, my tongue working frantically to keep up with his pace. My cock leaks onto the rug, a steady drip that mirrors the spit trailing from my lips, and I’m lost in the raw intensity of it, the way his groans fill the room, the way his hands command me.
He pulls me off abruptly, his cock slick and throbbing, the head flushed a deep red. “Turn around,” he orders, his voice rough, edged with need. I obey, crawling onto the couch on all fours, my ass high, thighs spread wide, the cool leather sticking to my sweaty palms. My heart-shaped face presses into the cushion, my long hair spilling over my shoulders, and I feel exposed, vulnerable, but also powerful in my submission. Kamrul kneels behind me, his hands spreading my cheeks, and I gasp as his tongue flicks against my hole, warm and wet, the sensation electric. He rims me with slow, deliberate licks, circling the sensitive ring of muscle, teasing the edges before dipping inside. I push back, craving more, my moans muffled against the couch as his tongue explores, relentless, each stroke sending shivers through my body.
“So fucking tight,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin, and I whimper as his fingers join in, one slipping inside me, slick with spit, then a second, stretching me with a delicious burn. The intrusion is slow, methodical, his fingers curling to find that spot inside me that makes my vision blur, my cock twitching against the leather. He works me open, scissoring his fingers, the stretch both painful and exquisite, and I rock back, desperate for more. “You want it, don’t you?” he says, his voice a low rumble, and I nod, breathless, my hands clutching the couch.
He pulls back, and I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper, the slick sound of lube being applied. My body tenses in anticipation, my ass still arched, thighs trembling. His cock presses against my hole, thick and unyielding, the blunt tip nudging my entrance. “Ready?” he asks, and I nod, my voice caught in my throat. He pushes in, slow at first, the stretch intense, a sharp burn that makes me whimper. My inner walls grip him, resisting, then yielding as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt. The fullness is overwhelming, his cock grinding against my prostate, sending sparks of pleasure through me that make my toes curl.
Kamrul groans, his hands gripping my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he holds me in place. “Fuck, your ass is perfect,” he says, and he starts to move, pulling out slowly, then thrusting back in, each motion deliberate, building a rhythm. The couch creaks under us, the leather slick with my sweat, and I brace myself, my fingers clawing at the cushions. He fucks me doggy-style, each thrust harder, deeper, the slap of his hips against my plump ass echoing in the room. The sensation is raw, consuming, his cock stretching me wide, hitting that sweet spot with every drive. My own cock bounces with each thrust, leaking a steady stream onto the couch, my tight balls aching with the need for release.
“More,” I gasp, my voice hoarse, and he obliges, his pace turning relentless, his cock pounding into me with a force that makes my body shake. One hand comes down, spanking my ass, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure, making me cry out. The sound is desperate, needy, and he spanks me again, the heat spreading across my skin, my ass clenching around him in response. “Fuck, you love this,” he growls, and I do, the mix of pain and pleasure pushing me closer to the edge.
He shifts, pulling me upright so I’m on my knees, my back pressed against his chest, his cock still buried deep. The new angle sends his shaft grinding against my prostate, and I moan, my head falling back against his shoulder. His hands roam my body, one pinching my nipple, the sharp jolt making me arch, the other stroking my cock, his fingers slick with my precum. He fucks me from behind, slow now, savoring each thrust, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “You feel so fucking good.” My long hair sticks to my sweaty neck, and I reach back, gripping his thighs, urging him deeper.
The rhythm builds again, his thrusts growing harder, more demanding, and I’m lost in it, the heat, the pain, the pleasure, my moans filling the room as he drives into me. He pulls out, and I whimper at the loss, but he flips me onto my back, laying me across the couch, my legs spread wide. He hooks my ankles over his shoulders, my thighs trembling under his grip, and slides back in with a single, smooth thrust. I arch, my hands grabbing his arms, nails digging into his skin as he pounds into me, his eyes locked on mine. “Look at you, taking it so well,” he says, his voice thick with lust, and I feel exposed, desired, powerful.
Each thrust sends a jolt through my prostate, building the pressure until I’m gasping, my cock twitching untouched, leaking steadily onto my stomach. Kamrul leans down, his lips brushing my throat, kissing the delicate skin, then nipping lightly, the sensation sending shivers through me. His hands grip my hips, lifting me slightly to change the angle, his cock hitting deeper, harder, each thrust a deliberate assault on my senses. My small breasts bounce with each movement, my nipples aching, and I reach up, pinching them myself, the sharp pleasure pushing me closer to the edge.
He shifts again, pulling my legs down so I’m flat on the couch, my thighs spread wide, his body hovering over mine. He fucks me missionary-style, his cock relentless, the wet slap of our bodies filling the room. My hands roam his chest, fingers tangling in the hair there, and I pull him closer, needing the weight of him, the heat. “Fuck, Nusrat,” he grunts, his thrusts growing erratic, his breath ragged. I clench around him, my inner walls gripping his cock, urging him on, and he groans, his hips stuttering.
“Fuck, I’m close,” he says, his voice a raw edge, and I nod, my own pleasure cresting. He thrusts harder, deeper, his cock pulsing inside me, and the sensation tips me over. My orgasm hits like a wave, my cock spurting across my stomach, hot and thick, as I moan his name, my body shaking. Kamrul follows, his shout echoing as he comes, his cock throbbing inside the condom, the heat of it searing through me. We collapse together, panting, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, our bodies slick and trembling.
He pulls out slowly, careful, disposing of the condom as I lie there, my chest heaving, my body still buzzing with aftershocks. He hands me a towel, his eyes softer now, almost tender. “You’re worth every penny,” he says, pulling a stack of cash from a drawer. I clean up, my fingers trembling as I wipe the mess from my stomach, the reality of the transaction settling in. I dress quickly, slipping back into my shalwar-kameez, my dupatta draped loosely over my shoulders, my hair a tangled mess. The cash feels heavy in my purse as I slip on my heels, their click on the marble floor a stark reminder of the line I’m walking—each step closer to my dreams, but at a cost I can’t ignore.
As I leave, Kamrul’s gaze follows me, a mix of admiration and something deeper, something I don’t want to name. The elevator ride down is quiet, the city’s lights blurring through the glass, and I clutch my purse, the weight of the money grounding me, even as my mind spins with the night’s intensity.
* * *
The weeks blur into a rhythm of ring lights, brand deals, and secret nights with Kamrul. His apartment becomes familiar, the plush couch a stage for our encounters. Each time, he’s generous, the cash piling up, funding a seamstress I’ve hired to bring my sketches to life. My Instagram following grows, my reels racking up views, but the fear of exposure gnaws at me. I’m careful, curating every post to hide my truth, but the effort is exhausting.
Kamrul’s messages start to feel personal, less like a client and more like a friend. He asks about my designs, my dreams, and I find myself opening up, sharing sketches over coffee at his place. But there’s always a moment when his hand lingers, his eyes darken, and we’re back on that couch, his cock buried in me, my moans echoing through the penthouse. It’s a cycle—pleasure, payment, and a quiet ache I can’t name.
One evening, he texts me about a “special night.” “A private party, just a few of us. A guest I think you’ll like. Name your price.” The sum he offers is staggering, enough to cover fabric for my entire collection. My instincts scream caution, but the money is too good, the thrill too tempting. I agree, choosing a black shalwar-kameez with silver threadwork, the kameez tight against my curves, my dupatta sheer enough to tease. My long hair is pinned up, exposing the delicate line of my throat, and my heels give me an extra inch of confidence.
At Kamrul’s apartment, the air is different—charged, expectant. He greets me with a kiss, his hands roaming my ass, and introduces me to Faruk, his neighbor. Faruk is about 30, with a gym-honed physique that strains his fitted shirt. His dark eyes are intense, his jaw sharp, and his smile carries an edge of danger. “Nusrat,” he says, his voice low, “Kamrul’s told me all about you.” His gaze rakes over me, lingering on my hips, my thighs, and I feel exposed, even fully dressed.
We drink, the conversation light but laced with tension. Faruk’s eyes never leave me, and Kamrul’s hand rests possessively on my knee. “Faruk’s curious,” Kamrul says, his tone teasing. “He wants to join us tonight. For the right price, of course.” My heart races, the idea both thrilling and terrifying. I name a figure, higher than usual, testing them. Faruk smirks, nodding, and Kamrul agrees without hesitation. “Let’s make it unforgettable,” Faruk says, and I feel the night shift into something wilder, riskier.
The air in Kamrul’s dimly lit bedroom crackles with a tension that sets my skin ablaze, my breath shallow and quick. The vast room, with its king-sized bed draped in dark silk sheets, feels both intimate and imposing, the city’s neon glow seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. My black shalwar-kameez clings to my hourglass figure, the silver threadwork shimmering faintly, accentuating the curve of my narrow waist and the generous swell of my hips. I know the outfit won’t stay on long, not with the way Kamrul’s familiar warmth presses against me, his hand resting possessively on my lower back, and Faruk’s predatory gaze raking over my body. My heart-shaped face flushes under his scrutiny, my full lips parting slightly, the delicate curve of my throat exposed as my long, dark hair, still pinned up, brushes my shoulders. The soft click of my heels against the floor echoes as I shift, my shapely thighs trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation.
“Fuck, you’re something else,” Faruk says, his voice a rough growl that sends a shiver down my spine. He steps closer, his gym-sculpted frame towering over me, his dark skin gleaming under the soft ambient lights. His shirt hangs open, revealing a chiseled chest and abs that ripple with every movement, a testament to hours spent lifting weights. Kamrul, standing behind me, slides his hand to my waist, pulling me against his solid frame, his lips grazing the sensitive shell of my ear. “Ready to play, Nusrat?” he murmurs, his breath hot, stirring the fine hairs on my neck. I nod, my pulse hammering, desire and apprehension coiling tightly in my gut, my small cock stirring beneath the tight fabric of my panties.
Faruk’s eyes glint as he pulls a leather strap from a drawer, its black surface supple and smooth, the edges catching the light. “Hands,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. I glance at Kamrul, seeking reassurance, and he nods, his dark eyes smoldering with lust. I extend my wrists, and Faruk binds them tightly, the leather biting into my skin, sending a sharp thrill through me. The restraint is both confining and exhilarating, grounding me in the moment. “Good girl,” Faruk says, the words hitting like a spark, igniting heat between my thighs where my 3-inch cock pulses, trapped in the delicate lace of my panties.
Kamrul steps behind me, his hands sliding under my kameez, fingers tracing the hourglass dip of my waist, the touch both possessive and reverent. “Let’s get this off,” he says, his voice low, and I raise my arms, letting him peel the fabric over my head. The kameez falls away, followed by my dupatta, a sheer veil of silver and black that pools at my feet. My shalwar is next, and I step out of my heels, the cool hardwood kissing my bare soles as the silky fabric slides down my long legs, leaving me in nothing but my black lace panties. My small breasts are exposed, the nipples hardening in the cool air, and I feel Faruk’s gaze lock onto my body, lingering on the plump curve of my ass, then to the tight bulge in my panties where my cock and tight balls press insistently against the lace.
Kamrul, familiar with my body, doesn’t flinch, but Faruk’s eyes widen slightly, a smirk curling his lips. “Well, shit,” he says, his voice low, intrigued rather than repelled. “Didn’t expect that to turn out true.” He steps closer, his fingers brushing the edge of my panties, and I tense, bracing for rejection. Instead, he hooks the lace and tugs it down, slow and deliberate, the fabric dragging against my skin until my cock springs free, hard and leaking, the tip glistening with precum. My tight balls nestle close to my body, sensitive and aching, and Faruk’s smirk deepens. “Fucking perfect,” he murmurs, his hand wrapping around my length, stroking once, twice, the rough calluses of his fingers sending a jolt of pleasure through me. I gasp, my bound wrists pulling against the leather strap as Kamrul’s hands settle on my shoulders, guiding me to my knees.
I’m eye-level with Faruk’s crotch now, his jeans straining against the bulge beneath. He unzips slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room, and frees his cock—thick, about eight inches, straight and veined, the head flushed and glistening with precum. Kamrul sheds his kurta, his familiar seven-inch cock, with its slight curve, bobbing as he steps closer. My mouth waters at the sight of them both, a jolt of desire shooting through me, my own cock throbbing untouched. “Go on,” Faruk says, his hand tangling in my hair, loosening the pins until my dark waves spill free, cascading over my shoulders. I lean in, my tongue flicking over Faruk’s tip, tasting the sharp, salty tang of him. He groans, a low, guttural sound, his grip tightening as I take him deeper, my lips stretching around his girth, my throat relaxing to accommodate his size.
Kamrul’s hand guides my head toward him next, and I switch, my mouth closing over his cock, the familiar weight of it filling me, warm and heavy. I alternate between them, sucking Faruk, then Kamrul, their hands rough in my hair, their hips thrusting gently at first. Faruk’s impatience grows, his grip tightening as he pushes deeper, fucking my throat with short, sharp thrusts. I gag softly, spit dripping down my chin, but the burn is exhilarating, my cock leaking onto the hardwood as I surrender to the rhythm. “Fuck, you’re good at this,” Faruk grunts, his voice thick with lust, while Kamrul murmurs encouragement, his fingers stroking my cheek, the contrast between their approaches dizzying.
I work them both, my lips slick and swollen, my tongue swirling over Faruk’s shaft, then Kamrul’s, savoring the differences—the straight, unyielding thickness of Faruk, the gentle curve of Kamrul that hits the back of my throat just right. My bound wrists rest against my thighs, the leather strap pulling taut, and I lean into Faruk, taking him deeper, my nose brushing the coarse hair at his base, the musky scent of him filling my senses. He thrusts harder, testing my limits, and I relax my throat, letting him slide in, my moans vibrating around his cock. Kamrul’s hand guides me back to him, and I suck him eagerly, my tongue teasing the sensitive ridge, his groans spurring me on.
They pull me up, my legs unsteady, and Faruk spins me, bending me over the bed. My bound wrists press into the silk sheets, my ass high, thighs spread wide, my body exposed and trembling. Kamrul kneels behind me, his hands spreading my cheeks, and I gasp as his tongue finds my hole, warm and wet, licking slow and deep. The sensation is electric, his tongue circling the sensitive ring of muscle, dipping inside with deliberate strokes that make me moan into the mattress. I push back, craving more, my cock twitching against the sheets, leaking steadily. Faruk watches, stroking his cock, his eyes locked on my arched back, the plump curve of my ass. “Look at that,” he says, and his hand comes down hard, spanking me, the sting sharp and electric, making me cry out. The pain blends with pleasure, and I arch further, offering myself to them both.
Kamrul’s tongue continues its assault, slow and teasing, then faster, his lips sucking gently at the sensitive skin. My moans grow louder, desperate, as he works me open, his fingers joining in, one slick with spit, then two, stretching me with a delicious burn. Faruk spanks me again, the sharp crack echoing, and I whimper, the dual sensations overwhelming—Kamrul’s gentle exploration, Faruk’s rough dominance. “So fucking tight,” Faruk growls, taking over, his fingers slick with lube, sliding into me with a rougher edge. He adds a second finger, then a third, pumping them in and out, curling to find that spot inside me that makes my vision blur, my cock leaking onto the sheets. I rock back, fucking myself on his fingers, the stretch intense but intoxicating, my body begging for more.
Kamrul hands Faruk a condom, and I hear the rip, the slick sound of lube. Faruk’s cock presses against my hole, thick and unyielding, the blunt tip nudging my entrance. I brace myself, my bound hands gripping the sheets, my heart pounding. He pushes in, slow at first, the stretch intense, a sharp burn that makes me whimper. He doesn’t stop, sinking deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside, his cock grinding against my prostate, sending sparks of pleasure through me. I moan, my face pressed into the sheets, my ass arched high, and Faruk groans, his hands gripping my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
He fucks me missionary-style, pulling me to the edge of the bed, my legs spread wide, ankles hooked over his shoulders. His thrusts are hard, relentless, each one jolting my body, my small breasts bouncing with the force. The silk sheets slide against my back, slick with sweat, and I arch, my bound wrists pressing into my stomach, the leather strap a constant reminder of my submission. Kamrul kneels beside me, his hand wrapping around my cock, stroking gently in contrast to Faruk’s roughness. “You’re taking him so well,” he says, his voice low, and I moan, my head thrown back, lost in the sensation of being filled, stretched, claimed.
Faruk’s thrusts are deep, punishing, his cock hitting my prostate with every drive, the pleasure building like a storm. My thighs tremble, my long legs quivering as he holds them high, his eyes locked on mine, dark and intense. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he growls, and I clench around him, drawing a sharp curse from his lips. Kamrul leans down, his lips brushing my nipple, sucking gently, the sensation sending a jolt straight to my cock. I cry out, my body caught between Faruk’s relentless thrusts and Kamrul’s tender touch, the contrast pushing me closer to the edge.
Faruk pulls out, and I whimper at the loss, but he flips me onto my stomach, my ass high again, thighs spread. He spanks me twice, the sharp pain blending with pleasure, the heat spreading across my skin. “You like that, don’t you?” he says, and I nod, breathless, as he slides back in, fucking me doggy-style. His hands grip my hips, pulling me back to meet his thrusts, the slap of skin against skin loud in the room. My cock bounces, aching, leaking onto the sheets, and I push back, matching his rhythm, craving the intensity. “Fuck, yes,” I gasp, my voice hoarse, and Faruk laughs, a dark, hungry sound that sends a shiver through me.
Kamrul moves in front, his cock brushing my lips, and I open for him, sucking him deep as Faruk fucks me from behind. The dual assault is overwhelming, Kamrul’s cock filling my mouth, his hands guiding my head with shallow, firm thrusts, while Faruk’s cock stretches my ass, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. I’m caught between them, my body a conduit for their desire, my own pleasure building with every movement, every moan. My bound wrists press into the sheets, my fingers clutching desperately, and I suck Kamrul harder, my tongue swirling, my throat relaxing to take him deeper.
Faruk shifts, pulling me upright so I’m on my knees, my back against his chest, his cock still buried inside me. The new angle sends his shaft grinding against my prostate, and I moan, my head falling back against his shoulder. His hands roam my body, one pinching my nipple, the sharp jolt making me arch, the other stroking my cock, his fingers slick with my precum. “You’re so fucking tight,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, and I shudder, my body trembling as he fucks me slow and deep, savoring each thrust.
Kamrul stands in front, his cock brushing my lips again, and I take him in, sucking eagerly, my moans muffled around his shaft. Faruk’s thrusts grow harder, more demanding, and I rock back, meeting him, the rhythm syncing perfectly. My cock throbs in his hand, leaking steadily, my balls aching with need. Kamrul’s hands tangle in my hair, guiding me, his thrusts shallow but insistent, and I lose myself in the sensation, my body a blur of heat and pleasure.
Faruk pulls out again, and I whimper, but he flips me onto my back, spreading my legs wide. He kneels between them, his cock sliding back in with a single thrust, the stretch familiar now but no less intense. He fucks me missionary-style again, his hands gripping my thighs, lifting them high, his eyes locked on mine. “Look at you,” he says, his voice rough, “taking it like you were made for it.” I moan, my hands still bound, pressing into my stomach, my small breasts bouncing with each thrust. Kamrul strokes my cock, his touch gentle, teasing, and I arch, my body begging for more.
They shift again, Faruk pulling out to let Kamrul take his place. Kamrul lays me flat, my legs spread wide, and slides in, his familiar cock filling me with long, deep strokes. The sensation is different—smoother, more controlled—but no less intense, his curve hitting my prostate just right. Faruk unties my wrists, the leather strap falling away, and I reach for him, stroking his cock, slick with lube and his own precum. “Ride me,” Kamrul says, pulling me up, and I straddle him, sinking onto his cock in a reverse cowgirl position, my back arched, my thighs trembling. The stretch is exquisite, his cock grinding deep, and I rock my hips, setting a slow, deliberate pace.
Faruk stands in front, his cock in my hand, then my mouth, and I suck him as I ride Kamrul, the rhythm syncing, my body a blur of sensation. I alternate between stroking and sucking Faruk, my lips stretched around his girth, my tongue teasing the head. Kamrul’s hands grip my hips, guiding me faster, his cock hitting deep, grinding against my prostate with every movement. My own cock bounces, leaking onto his stomach, my balls tight and aching. Faruk’s thrusts in my mouth grow erratic, his groans loud, and I feel him tense, his cock pulsing as he comes, hot and thick down my throat. I swallow, gasping, the sensation overwhelming, and it tips me over, my own orgasm crashing through me, my cock spurting across Kamrul’s thighs as I clench around him.
Kamrul’s thrusts stutter, his hands gripping my hips harder, and he groans, a low, primal sound, as he fills the condom inside me. We collapse, breathless, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, our bodies slick and trembling. Faruk hands me a towel, his smirk softer now, almost approving, and Kamrul presses a stack of cash into my hand. “Worth every taka,” Faruk says, and I force a smile, my body still buzzing, my mind reeling with the intensity of the night. I dress slowly, my shalwar-kameez wrinkled, my hair a tangled mess, and leave the apartment, the weight of the cash in my purse a heavy reminder of the night’s cost.
* * *
The threesome lingers like a bruise, tender and raw. The money—more than I’d ever made in one night—sits in my account, funding fabric orders and a small runway show I’m planning. But the thrill is tainted by a growing unease. Kamrul’s texts are softer now, almost affectionate, and he offers to fund my fashion line outright, no strings attached. I don’t believe him—there are always strings. Faruk, on the other hand, starts commenting on my Instagram, his words vague but pointed, like he’s testing me. “Looking forward to seeing more of you, Nusrat.” My stomach twists. He knows too much.
My followers keep growing, but so does the pressure. A troll account posts a cryptic comment on my latest reel: “What’s under that dupatta, huh?” It’s subtle, but it hits like a punch. I delete it, my hands shaking, but the fear of exposure gnaws at me. I can’t keep hiding, not if I want to be free. The idea of coming out, of weaving my truth into my brand, terrifies me, but it’s the only way forward.
I spend days preparing, sketching a collection that tells my story—vibrant shalwar-kameez with bold cuts, embroidery that mimics the journey of my transition. I book a small venue, hire models, and plan a live stream to reveal it all. Kamrul texts, offering support, but I keep him at arm’s length. Faruk’s comments grow bolder, hinting at exposure, and I snap, messaging him privately: “Say one word, and I’ll tell everyone about your little party habits.” He backs off, his silence a small victory.
The night of the live stream, I’m a wreck, my heart-shaped face pale under my makeup, my long legs unsteady in my heels. I wear my favorite design—a crimson kameez with gold threadwork, the dupatta sheer and flowing. The camera rolls, and I speak, my voice trembling at first, then steady. “I’m Nusrat, and I’m trans. This collection is my truth, my journey, and I’m done hiding.” The comments flood in—some hateful, others supportive, but the love outweighs the hate. My follower count dips, then surges, new fans drawn to my authenticity.
Kamrul watches the stream, texting me later: “You’re incredible. I’m here if you need me.” I don’t respond. Faruk stays silent, his threat defused. The fashion show is a blur of lights and applause, my designs a hit, the crowd embracing my story. I cut ties with Kamrul and Faruk, their money no longer worth the cost. My platform grows, brand deals pouring in, and I fund my line myself, sketching late into the night under the glow of my ring light.
As I sit in my apartment, a new design taking shape, I feel the weight lift. Dhaka’s chaos hums outside, but inside, I’m free—Nusrat, unmasked, my future as vibrant as the fabrics I weave.
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