I walked down a dark street late at night, returning from work. The city was quiet, only occasionally a car drove by. Suddenly, I heard the screech of tires behind me, and a black van with tinted windows abruptly stopped beside me. The doors flew open, and three burly men in masks jumped out. I didn’t even have time to scream—one grabbed my arms, another pressed a rag soaked in something sweet and suffocating to my mouth. The world blurred, and they dragged me inside. The van sped off, and I lost consciousness.
When I woke up, we were in some abandoned house on the outskirts of town. The room was dimly lit, with concrete walls and no windows. They threw me onto a dirty mattress, and the same men surrounded me. “Strip, bitch,” one of them growled, waving a knife. I tried to resist, but they were stronger. They tore off my jacket, shirt, jeans, underwear—everything. They took my clothes somewhere and left me naked, trembling with fear. “Now you’re our bitch,” another laughed, and I knew it wasn’t a joke.
They brought a pile of women’s clothes—all flashy, cheap, like something for a prostitute. They left it there and told me to put it on before they returned. In front of me lay all kinds of women’s clothing, a chastity belt, anal plugs, high heels, wigs, a pile of makeup. I didn’t put anything on. When they returned, I regretted it—they forcefully pulled black lace panties onto me, which barely covered my penis and dug into my skin. “Lift your ass, bitch,” one ordered, slapping my butt. I resisted, screamed that I wouldn’t wear those clothes, but they pinned me to the floor and dressed me by force. Next came black fishnet stockings with rubber bands to hold them on my thighs. They were smooth, tight, and I felt humiliated as they made me sit and put them on one by one. “Look how your legs have turned feminine,” they mocked.
Next—a short black latex skirt, tight, barely covering my butt. It was so tight that my penis stuck out in front, and the lines of the panties were visible in the back. They put a pink top with a deep neckline on me, made of thin material, with frills, like something for a streetwalker. They didn’t stop—they brought a wig with long red curls, put it on my head, and secured it with clips.
“Now makeup,” one said. They sat me in front of a mirror, one held my hands, the other applied makeup: bright red lipstick, black mascara, blush, eyeshadow. I looked like a cheap trans porn star. My gaze drifted to one of their pants—a massive bulge was visible in the crotch, another stood there rubbing his penis over his pants with a smirk.
Large screens were embedded in the walls of the room—they lit up and started playing hardcore porn. Trans and femboys of all kinds: one sucking a huge penis, another impaled on two at once, moaning and begging for more. “Look, that’s your future,” the kidnappers said. I turned away, but they forced me to watch, holding my head. Then they left. I refused to watch those videos and wear those clothes, screamed that I wouldn’t break, but they forced me.
“Do your makeup, get dressed, and suck, toothless and swallow everything,” they said. There were cameras and holes—glory holes—on the walls, through which they pushed their penises. “On your knees, bitch!” they commanded, and when I didn’t obey, they forced me. They broke me—I took the first penis into my mouth, salty and hard, sucked until it shot into my throat.
During the day, there were several of them—they took turns, forcing me to work with my mouth until I swallowed everything. But that wasn’t the end. The door creaked, and the main leader entered with a smirk. “We have guests, bitch. Paying guests,” he said, and two strangers entered the room. They looked like truck drivers—unshaven, in worn jeans, with lecherous looks.
One of them, fat, with greasy hair, threw a stack of crumpled bills on the table. “For that, I want his ass without a condom and to shoot inside,” he mumbled, unbuckling his belt. They laughed, and I tried to crawl away: “No, I won’t!” But they grabbed my hands and pinned me to the mattress. “The money’s paid, bitch, work your holes,” the leader growled and slapped me.
The fat guy stepped closer, his dirty penis already sticking out of his pants. He tore off my skirt, leaving only the panties and stockings, pushed aside the strip of the panties, spat on the hole, and without warning, entered me. I screamed in pain, but he just pressed harder and pounded my ass. The other guy, skinny and tattooed, jerked off, watching me, then shoved his penis into my mouth. “Suck, like your friends on the screen,” he said, pointing to the TV where another trans moaned under two guys. I choked, tears streaming down my face, but they didn’t stop. My kidnappers stood aside, filming it on their phones and counting money.
This continued for several days. They brought more and more men—some paid for oral, others for anal, one with gold teeth paid double to “fuck me in pink.” They forced me to wear a pink dress with frills that fit like a glove. I resisted, mumbled that I wouldn’t wear it, but they forced me until I obeyed. “You’re our cum dump bitch, get used to it,” they said, adjusting my wig and touching up my lips. Every new “guest” was worse than the last—they groped me roughly, slapped my ass, left bruises. One ejaculated on my face and laughed that I looked “like a porn star.”
At one point, I lost count of how many there were. The holes in the walls weren’t empty—men pushed their penises through and forced me to suck until my throat hurt. I was broken, humiliated, covered in cum, but they kept going. And then the door opened again, and five new men entered—with cameras, tripods, and professional lighting. “Time for the big show, bitch,” the leader said. They put me on my knees, tore off the skirt, leaving only the stockings and panties.
I resisted, screamed “No!”, but they were too strong. One pinned me to the mattress, another spread my legs, the third shoved his penis into my mouth. The cameras filmed everything—how they fucked me one after another and together, how I moaned in pain and humiliation, how their penises entered my ass and throat. They changed positions, filmed close-ups of my face covered in cum, my asshole, and my penis, which to my shame hardened from the coercion. “Look, bitch, this is what you’re made for,” they laughed as the cameras captured every moan.
When they finished, I lay on the mattress, destroyed, covered in cum, with smeared makeup and a crooked wig. They left me like a used toy.