They Called Me to Be Their Toy That Night
There was a freezing wind blowing that cut across my face and brought tears to my eyes. Under the dim light of the few streetlamps that were still working, I could barely make out the numbers on the buildings. My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating in my pocket, message after message. My companions for that night were getting impatient, and I, huddled inside my hoodie so I wouldn’t freeze stiff, still hadn’t found the address.
I should have dressed warmer, I thought.
Under my track pants and hoodie I was wearing little more than black fishnet stockings, a fake leather corset, and a dark-blue lace thong. Very much an outfit meant for pleasure and other similar vices: the corset accentuated my round, fleshy tits, the stockings made my firm, well-shaped legs glisten, and the thong marked the line that divided my ass cheeks, making my cunt look even more appetizing. What it was not, clearly, was clothing suitable for wandering around in the middle of an icy gale looking for an unfamiliar doorway.
As if that weren’t enough, the thong, pretty and elegant as it was, kept bunching up and trapping my balls. Because yes, I’ve got balls, and a cock too, and let nobody act surprised: you knew what you were coming for, didn’t you? Every so often I had to stop and discreetly readjust my package, and that embarrassed me. In a neighborhood as much like mine as this one, the same unwritten law probably applied: behind closed doors you can do whatever you want and no one interferes, but walking the street in whore’s lingerie can be considered an offense that gets paid back with a beating in some wasteland. And I had no intention of that.
At last I reached the address. I stopped in front of the building entrance and looked at the screen. I typed without replying to the twenty or thirty messages asking if I was almost there.
“I’m here.”
The reply came within seconds.
“Second floor. Ring the bell. It’s a guy and an active trans woman. Get into character.”
That left me the role of the passive trans woman, which was no problem for me. I’ve done it many times, and very well, in so many scenes of this film that is my life. It should be made clear that I’m not exactly trans: I live as a man most of the time, and only in private do I allow myself the luxury of behaving and being treated like a woman. It’s also true that that private life takes up more and more space in my life, becomes more and more essential, and feels more and more natural to me. Maybe one day this woman will end up taking ground from the man and forcing me into radical decisions. Or maybe I’m nothing more than a horny fag who likes being treated like a bitch and jerks off mentally over it.
Who knows. And really, who cares.
***
Anyway, there I was, and there they were, sprawled on a vinyl sofa, their outline murky in the half-light of a poorly lit room thick with cigarette smoke.
One was a big man, fat, hairy, in his fifties by my estimate, married judging by the ring on his right hand. He was completely naked, smoking a cigar with pleasure and slowly stroking, with his other hand, a cock so thick that even from a distance it looked gigantic.
The other one, or the other—let’s call them “the blond” so we understand each other—was a boy around forty, slight and slender, with smooth white skin. He wore a long blond wig, high leather boots with killer heels, a purple corset, and a black thong. He was curled up against the big man and gently caressed his chest.
At first they barely looked at me. But as soon as I took off my street clothes, I felt their eyes fixed on my curvy body. They whispered for a moment. I thought I caught something like, “...look at those tits.” I smiled. Those same tits that look so much like a woman’s, and that in my teens were the butt of jokes and the reason for more than one fistfight, are now one of the charms that get me the most attention from my playmates, whatever their gender. I suppose that’s why I also like this whole cross-dressing thing: the fat guy that almost nobody notices suddenly becomes a coveted object of desire. Anyway, the story of my life.
But I’m wandering off.
“Come here. Get on your knees,” the big man said.
I obeyed. The man wasn’t handsome, not by a long shot, but there was something in the direct way he looked, in his firm, soft voice, in his decisive gestures, that was very attractive. You could tell he was a self-assured man. A king in his little secret kingdom. And in that kingdom, things were done as he wanted.
So I knelt before him and, before he even asked, I started licking that thick, sticky glans. I closed my eyes and felt two hands stroking my tits. One was large and strong; the other, with slender, nervous fingers. I figured each of them was touching one breast. They kneaded them carefully, as if weighing them, as if learning the geography of my flesh. A wave of arousal made me shudder, and a sigh wanted to escape my mouth, only to die against that cock growing harder and harder.
“Look at those tits, enough to make a Cuban sandwich out of her...”
“Yeah, she’s got better tits than the bitch I fucked the other day...”
“And look at that ass...”
A hand gave me a light smack on the ass. Another pushed my head down until that thick, drooling knob hit my uvula. I held out as long as I could and, when I ran out of air, I pulled away to get some oxygen and looked up. The big man was watching me fixedly, his eyes full of fire.
“Suck my friend’s tits. I want to see it.”
I lunged at the blond. I pulled down the corset a little and started licking the nipples frantically. He threw his head back and gasped without trying to hide it. I went for his cock and found it hard, trembling, lubricated by a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. I couldn’t resist the temptation and started sucking it hard, drawing moans and jolts from him that made his legs tremble. Without effort I took it all the way in, to the balls, settling the glans in my throat and licking his balls with the tip of my tongue. The blond writhed and panted like a wounded animal, and his man’s huge hands groped my ass in a rough, brutal, hungry way that made me want to feel that cock inside me and those hands spanking me without mercy.
“How she sucks...”
“She’s a good whore...”
They talked as if I weren’t there. They were using me as a toy for their fantasies. And I loved it.
“Do you like what I brought you, baby?” he asked.
“I love it...” she answered.
They were kissing on the mouth while I, curled up in front of the sofa, stroked their cocks, one in each hand. His was immensely thick, though not fully hard. Hers was straight, not very big, hard as stone, trembling with excitement. I slowly sat up and went for the blond’s mouth. We met in a wet, hungry kiss that she returned with passionate voracity. We melted into that kiss and curled up again on the sofa. My skin, goosefleshed with pleasure and hypersensitive, shuddered whenever it brushed hers. The big man’s hoarse, obscene voice echoed in the smoke-heavy darkness, tempting and threatening.
“That’s it, that’s it... what whores...”
His rough panting suggested he was jerking off while watching us paw at each other and devour one another with kisses. The blond, with a trembling voice, asked me in my ear.
“Do you like me? Do you really like me?”
I couldn’t understand how such a beauty could even doubt it. Instead of answering with words, I kissed her mouth more hungrily, stroked her hard nipples and stiff cock with relish, pressed my body against hers, rubbed my hot tits against her chest.
“Don’t leave me out, sluts,” he growled.
The big man had gotten to his feet and was staring at us, his enormous cock in his hand, like a marvelous threat, like a terrible and long-awaited promise.
“Let’s go to bed.”
***
It would be far too complicated to explain precisely what happened from that moment on, how it happened, in what order things occurred. Overcome by uncontrollable arousal, transformed into a beast with an insatiable appetite, I lost track of time and space and let myself be carried away by a whirlwind of sensations that seemed to tear me away from reality. In that frenzy I did and let them do almost everything to me, with passionate eagerness, with abandoned delight. Of the hours—however many they were—that we shared in that narrow bed, in that half-dark room, I retain fragmented memories, like flashes illuminating a gallery of obscenity in which I appear starring in scenes of pure sexual gluttony.
I remember, yes, on all fours on the bed, brutally fucked by the blond’s stone-hard cock while I struggled against the gag reflex in my effort to swallow the big man’s immense log whole, and he, meanwhile, was crushing my tits with hands so skillful that pleasure made me cry.
I remember, yes, sharing with the blond the privilege of devouring that enormous cock, our tongues dancing around its shaft, meeting in obscene kisses, our mouths and the glans of that monstrosity joined by a spiderweb of saliva and pre-cum.
I remember, yes, both of their mouths licking my nipples, their hands stroking my trembling ass and shuddering cock in unison, my moans a torn declaration of filthy, diffuse love.
I remember, yes, kneeling on the bed, with both their mouths wrapped around my stiff cock, their two tongues taking turns in an endlessly sweet caress over my drooling glans, my balls shriveled tight with tension and my thighs barely holding me up.
I remember, yes, drooling with pleasure, eyes rolled back, while the blond’s tongue traced the sweaty cleft of my ass and the folds of my eager hole with meticulous insistence, and the big man’s strong hands kneaded my cheeks, pinched them, spread them, opened me, exposed me, offered me up for a joyous sacrifice.
I remember, yes, licking with gluttonous insistence the little hole of the blond, driving him into spasms of pleasure with the caresses of my tongue, drawing moans of filthy delight from him that mixed with the big man’s voice warning me that if I kept it up I was going to make “his girl” come.
I remember, yes, taking in my nearly dislocated mouth the merciless thrusts of that man’s immense log while “his girl” lovingly licked his ass, provoking trembling jolts in which his colossal stake slammed into my throat and brought me to the brink of suffocation.
I remember, yes, licking his nipples on his hairy chest, kissing his beer-, tobacco-, and cock-tasting mouth with reverent, pleading devotion, while the blond’s wet, urgent tongue ran over my throbbing, rigid cock.
I remember, yes, with my body drenched in sweat, my stockings torn, my face filthy with pre-cum and spit and God knows what else, cumming over the soft white ass cheeks of the blond, filling them with thick hot milk, rubbing my chafed glans against that mess after so much friction, so much rough treatment, so much pleasure. And seeing that man collect my cum with his fingers and make his “girl” lick it from them, staring at him with glassy eyes while he whispered with incoherent sweetness: “Drink the milk, whore... drink the milk, slut...”
***
And in all those images, in every scene, in every moment, explicit or implicit, spoken in words or in gestures, that conversation between them.
“Do you like what I brought you, baby?”
“I love it...”
Me there, like a toy to be played with, like a gift to boast about, like an object to be pampered like treasure, but an object all the same. And that feeling, instead of humiliating me—or perhaps precisely because, at bottom, it was a little humiliating—intensified my arousal, my pleasure, my desire, that desire in which my spirit burned like an offering to some forgotten deity of forbidden love.
I remember, in short, at who-knows-what hour, walking through the dark streets in the middle of that freezing wind. My flesh bruised, my holes sore, my soul light, my eyes watery, my heart full of a placid happiness. I walked with uncertain steps toward the car, already thinking about the next time they call me to use me again like a toy, like an object, like the missing piece in the puzzle of their filthy love story so everything will fit perfectly.