Tuesday night. Stall 3, Greyhound Spa. Cracked tiles, bleach-piss stink. Jorge’s thick, uncut Puerto Rican cock down my throat—perfect curve, musky balls slapping my chin. Gagging, drooling like a good little tranny whore.
Door swung open. Burly bearded man shoved his dick in my mouth alongside Jorge’s. Two cocks, one throat. Then three, four, five—spilled down my gullet. I got passed around like a communal joint. Verbal abuse rained: “You fucking tranny cocksucker, born for this.” My girlcock dripped ignored.
Guy number nine. Lean, scarred, dead eyes. Spun me around, thumbs spread my ass. No lube. No warning. Dry pressure, then he rammed in. Pain—white-hot, tearing. I gagged on another man’s cock while number nine fucked my bleeding hole. “This is what you deserve, tranny.” He pissed on my back after.
More men used my raw ass, my mouth, my face. I lay in puddle of cum, piss, blood—a human dumpster. Couldn’t walk after. Two guys helped me to shower, laughing.
But I smiled. Used. Wanted. The filthy, hole-hungry tranny whore I am.
Next time? Stall 3. Bring lube for guy nine.
Henrietta
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