Krystal May's Mistake Ch. 02

The leather seat stuck to Krystal-May's thighs the second she slid in. The SUV door slammed hard behind her, and the engine purred low like a beast beneath her. The air smelled like Black & Milds, sweat, and something synthetic--cheap cologne and male dominance.

From the driver's seat, the man didn't say anything at first.

He just stared at her.

Krystal-May kept her eyes forward, trembling, too scared to even breathe. Her fishnet top was ripped slightly at the shoulder. The vinyl booty shorts creaked as she shifted. The plug inside her moved with every breath, and the pink cage throbbed with an ache that didn't feel like arousal anymore.

Finally, the man spoke.

"Damn," he muttered, voice deep, thick with Houston street swagger. "You really wore that hoe outfit like I said, huh?"

She flinched. "Y-yes, Daddy..."

"Say it louder."

"Yes, Daddy."

He sucked his teeth. "That's right. I seen your little bitch-ass show. That lil' bounce routine? Like a damn pro. Thought I was watchin' a hoe on the Blade, not no sissy in a bedroom."

The SUV started rolling. No GPS, no hesitation. He knew exactly where they were headed.

Krystal-May sat rigid in the passenger seat, her gold hoop earrings swaying every time the car bumped. She didn't dare adjust her posture--he'd notice. Everything about him said danger. His hoodie was pulled low, sleeves rolled up over muscular, inked arms. His pants sagged just slightly, revealing the waistline of black boxers and a thick belt that looked ready to come off and strike.

He lit a blunt while driving.

One hand on the wheel, one hand holding fire.

The smoke filled the car in seconds.

"You know what the fuck this is now, right?" he said, not even looking at her.

She nodded meekly. "Yes, Daddy."

He glanced over for the first time, grill glinting as he sneered.

"Nah, bitch. You don't know shit yet. You been pretendin'. Dressin' up like a hoe, ridin' dick on cam, beggin' for Daddy--but that was a game. This ain't no game now. This the stroll."

She swallowed hard. Her thighs clenched reflexively.

He reached over, palmed her thigh roughly.

"Open 'em."

She obeyed, spreading her knees. The vinyl pulled tighter over her hips, exposing the glint of the cage and the edge of the plug.

He laughed. "Look atchu. Already wet. You scared, but your lil' sissy clit hard as fuck."

"I--I didn't mean--"

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped. "You don't speak unless I ask. You don't breathe unless I say. Got it?"

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered.

"Damn right."

They turned off the main road. No streetlights now. Just cracked pavement, boarded-up storefronts, the kind of place where cops didn't cruise and neighbors didn't snitch. A broken billboard loomed ahead, its peeling paint faded to white.

He pulled behind a long, low building with rusted stairs and doors that all looked the same--old motel, no sign, no name.

He parked.

"Get out."

Krystal-May hesitated.

He slapped the back of her head--not hard, just enough to jolt her.

"I said get the fuck out, hoe."

She scrambled, her heels catching on the lip of the doorframe. The moment she stood up, the night heat wrapped around her like punishment--humid, thick, filthy.

He came around the car, slow, rolling his shoulders.

"Walk."

She took a shaky step forward.

"Nah," he barked. "Strut. You got them whore heels on--act like it."

Krystal tried, hips swaying awkwardly, her body aching with shame.

He chuckled. "We gon' fix that real soon."

Inside, the room was exactly what she feared.

Ugly linoleum. Dingy sheets. Ring light already set up in the corner. Mirror on the closet door. No artwork. Just a small table and two chairs--and on it: a plastic container with zip ties, gloves, a second cage, some clippers, condoms, and a phone charger.

The window was taped shut.

"Strip," he said.

She blinked.

He stepped close. His breath smelled like Hennessy and weed. "Don't make me ask twice."

Krystal peeled the fishnet off, arms trembling. Her fingers snagged on the fabric.

"Faster."

She yanked it over her head, now bare-chested, her flat torso shining with sweat. The gold hoops clinked softly.

Then the shorts.

She unzipped them. Peeled them off.

The pink cage popped into view.

Dante grabbed it--rough, sudden, squeezing.

"Look at this lil' bitch dick," he growled. "Locked up like a good cumdump. You ain't no man. Ain't no boy. You mine now."

She whimpered.

"Say it."

"I'm yours, Daddy..."

"Nah," he said, tugging the collar's tag. "Read it."

She looked down at the chrome tag swinging from her throat.

"Cumdump," she whispered.

"Say it like you mean it."

"I'm your cumdump."

He smiled wide, gold teeth gleaming. "Damn right."

He stepped back, pulling out his phone, snapping a photo. No warning.

"You gonna be famous for real now, baby. No angles. No crop. Just Krystal-May, my new fuckin' property."

She sobbed softly.

He snapped another photo.

"Now bend over that bed, face in the mirror."

She obeyed.

"Daddy gon' break you in proper. And then we see what the streets think."

He reached for the lube without hurry.

And behind her, Krystal-May heard the zipper.

The bedspread was scratchy beneath her palms. Cheap, rough polyester patterned with cigarette burns and faded floral shapes that didn't match the stench of the room--sweat, old bleach, and something metallic, faint and lingering. Krystal-May stared into the cracked mirror across from the bed, her reflection lit harshly by the ring light's sterile glare. She looked broken already. Eyes puffy, cheeks streaked, wig slipping sideways. Her gold hoops glinted beneath the greasy motel bulb with every breath.

Behind her, Dante loomed.

"You lookin' at yourself?" he asked. His tone was sharp now--playtime gone. "Look close. You think this what a man look like?"

She whimpered. "No, Daddy."

"Damn right it ain't."

He yanked her wig straight with one hand, forcing her head back to face the mirror fully. "I want you to remember this. How you look, right now, 'fore the first time I take it. Ain't no pretendin' after this, bitch. You gon' walk different."

Krystal's knees buckled. She gripped the edge of the mattress tighter.

Dante rubbed his hands together behind her, slow and deliberate. "You lucky I'm in a generous mood," he said. "Usually a new hoe like you? She get dragged outside, bent over the hood, let the first five homies get a turn."

She gasped.

"But I'mma let you have your debut private," he said, his voice thick with mocking indulgence. "On camera."

He reached for the lube on the nightstand. Krystal could hear it--the slick sound of the cap popping, the cold squirt into his hand.

"Spread," he ordered.

She hesitated.

Wrong move.

His hand slammed down across her ass so hard her body jumped forward. The sound cracked like a gunshot against the walls.

"DID I STUTTER?"

"N-no, Daddy!" she cried out, scrambling to arch her back, spreading her knees wide across the bed.

"Yeah," he growled. "There you go. That's how a bitch gets bred."

She felt it then--his thick, lubed fingers forcing the plug free with a hard, slow twist. It popped out of her with an obscene squelch, and the sudden emptiness made her shiver. A thin dribble slid down her thigh, warm and humiliating.

Her hole pulsed in the open air.

Dante laughed. "You loose already, damn. Chloe did half my job for me."

She felt his cock press against her then--heavy, hot, thick like the dildo but alive. Real.

"Daddy, please--" she whimpered. "I--I'm scared--"

"You scared?" he mocked. "But you wasn't scared when you was bouncin' for them whiteboys in the chat? Callin' me Daddy? Moanin' like a lil' broke bitch in heat?"

She trembled.

"Don't worry," he said, voice low, cruel. "Daddy gon' take good care of his new sissy slut."

And then--

He pushed.

The head forced her open with relentless pressure. Her body resisted, trembling, but he wasn't in the mood to wait. He spit once, right on her exposed hole, and slammed in another inch.

She screamed.

But he just grabbed her by the collar, pulling it tight.

"You make noise again, I put you on live for the whole stroll to see."

She bit her lip. Tears streamed down her face.

He bottomed out with a grunt, hands gripping her hips like reins.

"That's right," he hissed. "Take all that hood dick, Krystal. Let it stretch that whiteboy bitchhole. You belong to the street now."

His hips slammed forward. Again. Again.

The sound of his body hitting hers filled the room--wet, rhythmic, loud. Her cage bounced beneath her, swinging between her thighs, tapping the bed with each brutal thrust. Her gold hoops swayed wildly beside her face in the mirror. And in her eyes--shame, fear, arousal she couldn't hide.

He noticed.

"Oh, you like that?" he snarled. "You cryin' and still that lil' clit twitchin'? This what you needed, huh? Not some camera. Not a fantasy. A real nigga to make you a real hoe."

She sobbed into the bedspread.

"Say it," he barked. "Say what you are."

"I'm... I'm a street hoe," she whimpered.

"Louder!"

"I'M A STREET HOE, DADDY!"

His pace didn't slow. If anything, it got harder.

"Damn right," he growled. "You ain't goin' back to no soft life now. This the start, bitch. This where you live. On your knees, in heels, takin' dick for rent."

She couldn't breathe. Her whole body shook.

"Smile in the mirror," he ordered. "Daddy takin' your first for real. I want you smilin' when you break."

And she did.

Tears streaking her cheeks, makeup ruined, gold hoops swinging.

She smiled.

Because Dante said so.

Because she didn't have a choice.

Because Krystal-May was his now.

Dante didn't stop when she started to cry again.

In fact, he didn't even slow.

Krystal-May's sobs were muffled against the motel bedspread, her cheek pressed into the scratchy fabric as Dante's hips slammed into her from behind. Her body jolted with every thrust. The pressure inside her was unrelenting--raw, punishing, deeper than the dildo had ever reached. His cock felt endless.

He didn't moan. He didn't talk much anymore either. His breathing was steady, powerful, and cold.

Just the rhythmic slap of his thighs against her ass. The wet, humiliating squelch of her stretched hole giving way. The soft tap of the cage swinging against the bed. Her earrings jingled every time her face shifted against the mattress. She'd drooled without realizing it, a dark smear wetting the pillow beneath her.

And still he pounded.

And still she obeyed.

"Arch that back," he growled.

She tried.

Her arms were numb. Her thighs were trembling violently. The plug had already left her sore. But she obeyed--because that's what street whores did. And now, that's what she was.

"Good bitch," he muttered, dragging a hand down her spine, gripping her hips harder, repositioning. "Daddy gon' nut deep in that sissy hole. Fill you up like the dumb cumdump you is."

She sobbed--half from fear, half from a shameful throb of heat that still wouldn't go away.

Her cage pulsed with every thrust, pressing into the bed, the ache turning to something unbearable. It didn't matter that she couldn't cum. Her body betrayed her anyway. The pressure inside her was unbearable. Her toes curled in the cheap white heels. Her arms gave out and she collapsed flat to the bed--but Dante didn't stop.

He pushed her down and climbed on top, pounding even harder from above, pinning her face to the pillow.

Her whimpers turned to broken little cries, rhythmic and breathless.

And then--he grunted.

Deep. Guttural.

His hips slammed forward one final time, burying himself to the root.

She could feel the warmth flood into her--thick, hot, claiming.

She gasped.

He stayed there a moment, breathing heavy, one hand gripping her hair tight.

"You feel that?" he asked in a low voice.

She nodded slowly. "Yes, Daddy..."

"That's mine in you now. Ain't just a name on a screen no more. Ain't a game no more."

He pulled out with a wet sound. A trail of cum spilled from her ruined hole down her thigh, mixing with sweat and leftover lube.

She collapsed fully, too exhausted to speak.

Dante stood behind her, bare-chested, sweat shining across his tattoos, belt hanging from one hand. He smirked down at her.

"You done cryin'?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

He grabbed her wig and yanked her head back.

"I said--you done cryin'?"

She winced. "Yes, Daddy..."

"Good. 'Cause we ain't finished."

Her eyes widened.

"I got two boys on the way," he said, letting her hair go. "They wanna see what I been braggin' about."

Krystal's heart stopped.

He walked toward the door, grabbing his phone.

"I told 'em," he said, "I got me a brand new white sissy, straight out the box. Tight little bitch that call me Daddy and say thank you after."

He glanced over his shoulder at her.

"You gon' say thank you, right?"

She trembled.

"Yes, Daddy."

He nodded. "That's what I thought."

He unlocked the door and cracked it open. Cool night air drifted in, carrying the low thump of bass from a car stereo nearby. He walked out letting the door slam shut behind him. She was alone. For now.

Krystal tried to sit up, but her body refused. Her makeup was a ruin. Her collar's tag clinked softly against the metal bedframe as she shifted.

She felt used.

Owned.

Exactly as he wanted her to.

Outside, two male voices laughed.

Car doors slammed.

They were coming.

And Krystal-May knew--this was only the beginning of her first night.

-----

The door opened without a knock.

Dante didn't speak. He didn't check if she was ready, or decent, or even aware. He just pulled the handle and stepped aside, letting the heat from the hallway seep in with the sounds of low voices and scuffed sneakers against concrete.

Krystal-May didn't lift her head.

She was still folded over the edge of the bed, legs parted wide and trembling, face half-buried in the scratchy motel bedspread. The plug was gone--yanked out and discarded. Her hole was red, raw, and leaking slowly from Dante's earlier finish. The air around her felt thick and unclean. Cheap detergent and lube. Smoke and sweat.

The ring light hummed from behind, casting her entire body in its pitiless glow. Her figure reflected clearly in the long wall mirror across from the bed--gold hoops swinging slightly, makeup smeared beyond repair, mesh crop top twisted around her ribs. The "CUMDUMP" collar still hung from her throat, the tag resting against the mattress where she lay motionless, arms splayed and shaking.

Two figures stepped inside.

Their presence filled the room immediately--loud, physical, uninvited.

"Damn," one of them muttered. His voice was thick with drawl and heat, casual but sharp. "You really got this bitch laid out like a buffet."

"Shit, look at that ass," the other said, shutting the door with his foot. "You wasn't playin', D."

Krystal-May tried to lift her head, but her neck gave out. Her chin dropped back to the bed, hairline damp, the shifted wig clinging crooked to her scalp.

She heard Dante drop back into the chair beside the bed--the same one he'd lounged in during the stream. His chain clinked once as he leaned forward, elbow on his knee, flicking a blunt between his fingers.

"I told y'all she was ready," he said, voice low and calm, like he was discussing the weather.

The taller of the two new arrivals--dark skin, long dreads pulled tight under a fitted cap--walked to the side of the bed. He knelt beside Krystal and rested a hand lightly on the small of her back, just above the swell of her ass. The other, broader, with a bald head and gold grill, hovered behind, already tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants.

"She breathin'?" the bald one asked, grinning.

Krystal-May twitched slightly at the question, but she couldn't speak. Her body was limp, muscles trembling from overuse.

"She breathin'," Dante confirmed. "She just quiet now. Broke her good. Gave her what she needed."

The man with the dreads traced a finger between her cheeks, pushing apart the slick mess to inspect her hole. She winced. Her legs jerked reflexively. But she didn't move away.

"Loose as fuck," he said, sounding more impressed than amused. "She take it like that from the jump?"

Dante exhaled smoke. "She been training herself. Cameras on. Bouncing on plastic like a lil' toy. She already wanted it."

Krystal shivered as a thumb pressed in against the sore, leaking entrance. She heard the man click his tongue softly.

"She hot. You still drippin', mama?"

He leaned forward and whispered close to her ear. "Tell Daddy's friends thank you."

Her voice cracked when she tried. It came out hoarse. "T-thank you..."

The bald one laughed. "Oh, this bitch polite."

"She gonna be," Dante said, watching her with a cold calm. "Or she ain't leaving this room in one piece."

The man behind her grabbed her by the collar and pulled her up roughly onto her knees. Her arms flopped at her sides. Her body sagged forward. She barely caught herself in time to avoid falling face-first into the mattress. She ended up dragged by her collar down off the bed. Kneeling on the floor, legs spread, arms dangling, mouth hanging open in exhaustion.

Her cage swung uselessly beneath her, glinting in the ring light.

Her eyes met the mirror.

What looked back barely resembled a person. A cracked parody of a girl--face stained with tears, lashes clumped together in ruined mascara, pink gloss smeared down to her chin. The synthetic curls of the wig hung limp over her eyes.

The bald one stepped in front of her.

"Open up, bitch."

She hesitated.

He didn't.

One hand on the back of her head, the other around the base of his thick, dark cock, he shoved forward. Her lips parted from instinct alone, but he was already halfway in by the time she processed it. The taste--bitter, salty, thick with sweat--made her gag immediately.

He didn't care.

"Yeah," he grunted. "That mouth built for this."

He thrust deeper, forcing her to take more, fingers tightening in her hair. Her throat locked. She fought to breathe. Her vision blurred.

Behind her, the man with dreads pulled her hips back into position.

Her knees wobbled in the white patent heels, but she didn't fall.

He spat between her cheeks and spread her wide.

"She gon' feel this," he muttered, lining up.

Then he pushed.

There was no warm-up. No warning.

Just pressure. Brutal and unrelenting.

Krystal-May cried out around the cock in her mouth, the sound muffled, panicked, animal.

Her already-wrecked hole gave way slowly, then all at once. The stretch sent a bolt of pain up her spine, but the pressure didn't stop. He shoved in until she was flush against him, her body trembling, heels skidding against the laminate floor.

"Fuck," he growled. "She grip like she beggin'."

The bald one slapped the side of her face lightly as he pumped her mouth. "She is beggin'. Ain't you, slut?"

She didn't answer.

He yanked her hair back, pulling her lips off with a wet pop.

"Say it."

"I'm b-begging," she choked. "I'm your slut..."

Dante chuckled from his chair, tapping ash into a Styrofoam cup. "There she go."

The man behind her started thrusting--slow at first, then harder, faster. His hips slapped against her ass, skin against skin, wet and merciless. The force shoved her forward with each motion, back onto the cock in her mouth. Her body rocked between them, impaled from both ends, no control left at all.

Her jaw ached. Her throat was raw. Her insides burned.

Her mind went blank.

All that remained was the rhythm--the push, the pull, the sound of grunting men and slick flesh and the distant hum of the ring light.

She could hear them talking above her, around her, through her--but she couldn't understand it anymore.

Her vision blurred.

Her arms gave out.

The man in front grabbed her by the chin and held her upright, fucking her face with short, punishing thrusts while the other railed her from behind with the full force of his hips.

Dante stood at some point--when she wasn't looking--and came over behind them, blunt still burning between his fingers. He watched from above, impassive.

"She takin' both y'all like it's nothin'," he said. "That's what I call a return on investment."

Neither of the other men said anything back.

They were too focused now. Just using her.

And she let them.

She was too far gone to stop it.

Her knees burned from the floor. Her cage throbbed, the ache unbearable. Her lips were raw. Her cheeks streaked with spit and tears and smeared gloss.

The mirror caught it all.

The ring light never blinked.

The two men moved like they owned her body. Like they'd been waiting their turn. And Dante?

He didn't need to touch her again.

He already had what he wanted.

Krystal-May had stopped resisting.

Krystal-May's body trembled in place, caught between the two men, every movement dictated by their hands, their weight, the relentless rhythm they imposed on her. Her knees were blistering from the cheap laminate flooring, the heels biting deeper into the backs of her ankles with every shift. Her back arched unnaturally, forced there by the thick hand fisted in the collar around her neck and the other gripping the back of her thighs. Her arms hung limp at her sides, too spent to fight, to beg, or even to hold herself up. The bald man fucking her throat had taken to using her head like a handle, slamming her face down to the base of his cock in brutal, choking thrusts while the man behind her jackhammered into her swollen hole with all the patience of a jackal. Each thrust split her open wider, forcing her to feel the consequences of her choices in ways her camera never could--flesh, pain, weight, breath, the raw humiliation of reality as a rhythm she couldn't control.

The air was thick with the stink of sweat and sex and smoke, the acrid scent of the ring light's warm plastic bulb still pulsing across her slick, glossy skin. Her own reflection in the mirror had become unbearable--an image of collapse and surrender and degradation. Mascara rained down her cheeks in uneven blotches. The choker sat askew, the glittering "CUMDUMP" tag pressed tightly to her throat. Her wig had nearly come loose, sagging off one ear, revealing the sweat-soaked short hair beneath. The thick hoops bounced each time her body jolted forward, glinting briefly in the artificial glow like twisted medals of obedience. Everything about her presentation had frayed, come apart at the seams--no longer Krystal-May the camgirl, the curated illusion--but Krystal-May the meat, the bitch in a hotel room on her knees, being used.

Dante had barely moved since the men arrived. He stood at the edge of the bed now, watching, his eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, arms crossed over his broad chest, chains resting against his skin. His mouth curled in a slow grin, head cocked slightly to the side as though admiring the final strokes of a painting. Occasionally, he'd bring the blunt to his lips, pull a long drag, and exhale with that same bored precision. But his attention never left her--not for a second. He watched as the man behind her spat once more and grabbed her hips tighter, angling upward so the head of his cock ground deeper with each thrust, forcing guttural noises from Krystal's throat as she gagged and sputtered around the cock in her mouth.

There was no dignity left in her motions. No illusion of pleasure or agency or performance. Just raw motion. Survival. Her hole had stopped clenching minutes ago, now stretched wide and slick, taking every inch because she no longer had the strength to resist. Her mouth hung open even when she wasn't being slammed into, a glistening pink ring of exhaustion and residue. Her makeup had given up entirely. Her eyes had glazed. And her mind--her mind had gone still.

The man behind her groaned low and snapped his hips forward, grinding himself in to the hilt, forcing her to rise on her toes to accommodate the depth. He stayed there, pressed flush against her ass, breathing in short, ragged bursts. His cock pulsed inside her, and Krystal-May felt the flood again--hot, thick, unmistakable. Her already-wrecked hole overflowed. He pulled out a second later without warning, and she collapsed forward, falling against the lap of the man still seated on the bed. Her face landed against the soft belly of the bald man, who simply chuckled and guided her back onto his cock, slipping it past her lips with a slow, forceful finality.

She was too tired to gag.

Too ruined to flinch.

He came down her throat within seconds.

It was thick and acrid and bitter, but she swallowed reflexively, because it was easier than fighting. He made her stay there for a moment, mouth still full, cock softening against her tongue. Then he pulled away, letting her head fall back, spit and cum trailing from her lips in a string that clung to her chin.

The room was quiet for a beat. No one spoke.

She stayed on all fours, collapsed in a trembling heap, face planted against the mattress, the CUMDUMP tag bouncing faintly with each shuddering breath. Her cage pressed painfully into the damp vinyl of the shorts that had been pulled down only far enough to expose her ass. Every muscle in her thighs twitched. Her insides burned. Her face ached from the stretch, her jaw throbbed with the dull pain of overuse.

Dante moved finally, stepping closer. His boots made no sound on the motel carpet. He crouched beside her, fingers lifting her chin. Her eyes barely opened, lashes sticking together in clumps. Her lip quivered when she saw him, but she didn't speak. She didn't dare.

"She done?" the man with dreads asked, wiping himself on one of the room's thin towels.

Dante looked at her for a long moment. Then, gently, he let her chin drop.

"Not yet."

Krystal-May whimpered.

He stood and walked to the desk near the door. He pulled out the largest plug Krystal had ever seen. Impossibly large. Her stomach, filled with ropes of cum, knotted in dread. The plug scared her. Black. Thick. Cruel.

The other men saw it and laughed as they walked out of the motel room.

Dante didn't say anything as he walked behind her.

Krystal-May didn't dare turn her head. She stayed where she was--kneeling on the scuffed linoleum floor, legs trembling, head slumped against the edge of the mattress like a doll discarded mid-play. Her arms hung limp, palms splayed uselessly against the floor. Her makeup was a streaked ruin, cheeks damp, hair half-wrenched from its pins.

Behind her, Dante was silent.

But she heard it: the unmistakable low glug of a lube bottle being squeezed. She flinched.

Her jaw trembled as she whispered, "Daddy... I--maybe just a second, just to catch my breath--"

The sound stopped.

The air changed.

"A second?" he said--quiet, dangerous.

Krystal-May opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Dante crouched behind her.

"You sittin' here leakin' all over my goddamn floor, lookin' like a cracked-out Dollar Tree Barbie," he said, tone flat. "Three dicks in, barely broke in, and you tryna tell me you need a second?"

She swallowed hard, heat rising in her face.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

Dante spat on her.

She gasped as it struck her lower back--hot, wet, final.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You think you in charge of when you get broke open? You think you got a say?"

The plug was coated now with a thick coat of lube and gleaming in the low light. It wasn't just large. It was obscene. The base alone was nearly as wide as her palm, and the bulbous shaft above it flared into a punishing dome.

He didn't ask if she was ready.

He lined it up against her ruined, open hole--still slick with the mess of the men who'd used her, her insides twitching and pink.

"Spread 'em."

Her knees were already apart, but she tried--shuffling them another inch, thighs shaking so badly they barely obeyed. Her entire lower half trembled under the strain of staying upright.

Dante pressed the tip in.

She gasped--sharp and instinctive.

Her body, already violated and overworked, instinctively tried to resist the pressure--but it was no use. Her muscles were too exhausted to mount any defense.

The plug inched forward.

"Don't gimme no excuses," he growled. "You was built for this. You just ain't learned yet."

Her hands clawed weakly at the mattress edge.

He pressed deeper.

The tapered point gave way to the first thick swell, forcing her body to stretch wide again--wider than before. Her back arched involuntarily, a sob catching in her throat.

"Daddy, please--it's so big--"

Dante didn't stop.

"Shut up," he said. "You lucky I ain't still got more company waitin' for their turn."

She bit down on the mattress, trying to muffle the sound as the pressure became blinding. Her legs jerked, thighs knocking together, knees slipping slightly on the linoleum. Dante gripped her hips to steady her--firm, immovable, like stone.

"Yeah," he muttered. "That's it. That hole talkin' now."

The widest part of the plug hit her entrance.

Krystal-May's whole body locked.

"Daddy--!"

One sharp thrust.

The massive bulb popped inside with a wet, disgusting sound.

She screamed into the mattress. Her entire frame convulsed as her body tried to reject it--tried to understand the sudden fullness, the total occupation of her rear. The plug felt like it was seated in her spine. Her mouth hung open in disbelief.

The flared base smacked tight against her cheeks, sealing her up.

Dante leaned back and admired his work.

Krystal-May collapsed forward, sobbing openly now, her arms folding beneath her, sweat-slick chest pressing into the side of the mattress. Her knees buckled but didn't fold. She stayed there--barely--locked wide, breath hitching, hole stretched impossibly around the final plug.

He stood.

"Now you carryin' that everywhere," he said. "Ain't comin' out till I say. Might be days. Might be weeks."

She whimpered in response, but he wasn't listening.

Dante walked across the room to the ring light. The floor creaked under his boots.

He picked up his phone, swiped once, and tapped the screen.

The blue glow reflected in his eyes as the stream app launched.

"Get ready," he said, not turning around. "They about to see what a real broken bitch look like."

The harsh glare of the ring light illuminated every degrading detail--the cheap laminate headboard, the nicotine-stained curtains, the faded motel wallpaper curling at the edges. But the camera wasn't focused on the background.

It was focused on Krystal-May.

She was on her hands and knees on the scuffed linoleum floor, body quivering, head low against the edge of the bed. Her cheeks were streaked with ruined makeup and tears. Her ass, raised and exposed to the lens, was stretched wide by the massive black plug Dante had seated in her minutes earlier. Her ruined hole twitched faintly around the girthy base, swollen, raw, owned.

The stream was live.

And it was her account.

yo this her real channel??

wtf happened to her apartment?

why she on motel flooring

no cap this the same Krystal from last week right?

The chat was a blur--first stunned, then confused. This wasn't the usual backdrop. not Chloe's apartment. Now it was harsh white light, peeling paint, and a cum-leaking, plugged-up Krystal sprawled on a cheap motel floor.

Dante moved into frame slowly.

He set the phone down at just the right angle to capture her full body--kneeling, sweaty, destroyed. He sat back in the motel's chair, shirtless, gold rings catching the glow. His grin was slow and satisfied.

"Oh yeah," he said, finally addressing the feed. "This her stream. Her login. Ain't no deepfake. Ain't no collab. You watchin' Krystal-May--for real."

this live rn?

nah this gotta be stolen content or sum

what happened to the cute solo dildo vids??

Krystal-May groaned softly, head still against the edge of the mattress. She couldn't look at the camera. Couldn't speak. The plug inside her shifted with every tremble of her thighs, reminding her with throbbing intensity that she didn't belong to herself anymore.

Dante leaned in toward the mic.

"Y'all wondering what happened to your lil' princess?" he asked, voice smooth and slow. "Wonderin' why she on linoleum in a two-star off Bissonnet instead of bouncing on a dildo in a girly ass maid unform."

He looked down at her and gave the plug a slow twist.

Krystal-May screamed--a broken, high-pitched sound that sent the chat into chaos.

DAAAAAAMN

yo he SPUN it wtf

she straight up cried

I ain't seen her like this ever

what kinda stream is this

Dante chuckled.

"That's cause she ain't streamin' no more," he said. "She ain't performin'. This ain't a show. This what she is now. She my hoe."

He stood up, walked slowly around her wrecked form, and crouched beside her. She flinched, trembling as he ran a hand through her sweat-matted hair.

"I know what y'all thinkin'," he continued, voice darker now. "Y'all think this some new act. Maybe she changed her roleplay up. Maybe she takin' it to the next level."

He smirked.

"Nah. Truth is? She got caught."

"Bitch was mid-stream," Dante said, dragging her up by the hair just enough so her red, ruined face was angled toward the camera.

He let go, letting her collapse again.

"His girlfriend walked in."

NOOOOOO

she caught her LIVE?

wtf

so this really happened?

yo my chest

Krystal-May whimpered.

She remembered the scream. The slamming door. The look on Chloe's face. Her voice--shrill and disgusted--as she demanded answers Krystal couldn't give fast enough. And then the silence. The heavy silence. The way Chloe's rage settled into something colder.

"She saw it all," Dante continued.

He laughed.

"And you know what she did next?"

NO way

she kicked her out??

they break up?

nah I feel sick rn

what'd she do??

"She sold her."

The chat froze.

"Fifteen thousand dollars. Cash."

cap

FIFTEEN??

yo she really did that?

he serious???

He crouched again and gave the plug another sharp push.

Krystal-May shrieked and collapsed flat to the floor, cheek pressed against the linoleum.

"She asked me to take her," Dante added. "Told me, 'She's already dressed for what she is.' And kicked her out the house. Now she mine. All mine."

The chat detonated.

this is EVIL

The coldest bitch on earth

she just SOLD her???

this like some snuff stream levels of real

she really went from dildo vids to motel whore slave overnight

Krystal-May didn't move.

She couldn't.

The chat kept pouring in, messages flashing faster than she could read, their disbelief turning to delight, arousal, mockery. All of them watching. All of them knowing.

Dante let the silence hang heavy.

He didn't rush. Didn't need to. The chat was already losing its mind, messages flashing in real time like gunfire. Thousands watching. Thousands realizing. And right there on their screen, Krystal-May--plugged, shaking, broken--was proof this wasn't fantasy.

This was what really happened when a sissy got caught.

this that real degradation shit

she ain't comin back from this one

she twitchin like she glitched

plug got her soul fightin for air

Dante stood over her with the presence of a man who ran blocks, not bedrooms. Tall, broad, inked up, shirtless--gold teeth glinting under the motel light, chains resting heavy across his chest. One hand gestured toward her like a man introducing a product he owned. The other adjusted his sagging jeans with lazy confidence.

"She look like a bitch that make her own choices?" he said, voice thick with that street bite. "Look at her. Can't even lift her head. Got my name stamped on her insides now."

Krystal-May lay limp, arms collapsed under her chest, plug still seated tight. Her makeup had melted into sweaty streaks. Her ass was high and leaking slow down her thighs, the plug twitching every time she tried to breathe.

"She used to act cute for y'all," Dante said, walking in slow circles around her. "Dressed up like a little maid, callin' herself a bad girl. But that wasn't real. That was pretend. This right here? This her truth. A motel bitch with no keys, no phone, no name."

dawg she look BRAINWRECKED

she was doin slutty cosplay now she on motel duty

I been followin this stream for months--this a whole funeral

pimp said RIP to the old Krystal lol

He crouched down, grabbed her by the jaw, and turned her head toward the camera.

"Tell 'em what you is now, bitch," he growled.

Krystal-May blinked, lips trembling. Her voice came out in a whisper.

"... y-yours..."

OOOOOOOHHHHHHH

bitch broke for real

she didn't even hesitate

I came

Dante shoved her face back down.

"Damn right you mine. You got sold like a fuckin' pawnshop necklace. Girlfriend caught your sissy ass bouncin' on a dildo and said, 'He belong in the street.' So I took you."

He stood up again, laughing.

"Fifteen bands. Cash. Didn't even haggle. She wanted you gone."

chills fr

sold him like a Craigslist couch

bitch really worth 15k?

this some black market pimpin type beat

Dante leaned into the camera, flashing that slow, dangerous grin.

"And now look where she at. Plugged up in a motel off Bissonnet. Leakin' and cryin' in front of the same fans she used to tease. Shit poetic."

Krystal-May whimpered again, shaking her head faintly as if denial could undo it.

Dante didn't let her drift. He reached down and spanked her--hard, three times in quick succession. The smack of skin echoed off the cracked walls.

"No, bitch. You don't get to act ashamed now. You loved puttin' on a show. You just never expected the whole fuckin' world to watch you get turned out for real."

she shakin like a used toy

pimp got her trained in HOURS

she ain't even fake moanin no more

He reached down and twisted the plug again--hard this time. Krystal-May gasped like she'd been electrocuted.

"You feel that?" he said. "That's the weight of your choices, bitch."

He looked back at the phone.

"Y'all ever wonder what happens when a sissy gets caught for real? Not just fantasy, not roleplay. Caught. Exposed. Humiliated. Stripped and handed over to a real man."

this the future of sissy camming

she went from stream princess to street hoe in 24 hours

pimp education 101

Dante bent over her again, his voice now low and rough in her ear.

"Say goodbye to your fans, Krystal," he muttered. "Tell 'em they ain't your viewers no more. They your witnesses."

Krystal-May didn't answer.

He slapped her again.

"Say it."

"... g-goodbye..."

BRO SHE SAID IT

this a whole execution

she gone gone

Dante nodded, satisfied.

Then he stepped back into frame, arms folded, and grinned like a man who just claimed a block.

"She used to bounce for tips," he said. "Now she bounce 'cause I tell her to. Now she get seen 'cause I let her. Y'all ain't subscribers anymore. Y'all an audience."

He looked down at her, still trembling on the floor.

"She don't stream," he said. "She gets streamed."

And the room went silent--except for the ring light's buzz and the sound of the chat lighting up like a riot.

Dante ended the stream.

-----

The sun was starting to rise.

Thin, dirty-yellow streaks of light filtered through the cracked blinds, cutting across the motel room in sharp slashes that didn't warm a damn thing. The air inside was still heavy with sweat, latex, and the sour sting of lube left on cheap linoleum. The old radiator ticked as it cooled, and somewhere outside, a car alarm howled before cutting off in a burst of static.

Krystal-May was finished.

She lay crumpled near the base of the bed, face against the mattress, arms limp. Her makeup was gone--melted and smeared into the cheap fabric of the sheets. Her fishnet top hung shredded and stretched across her chest, threads pulled and tangled from friction and sweat. The vinyl booty shorts were pulled back up, wedged high into her crack, struggling to hide the monstrous plug seated deep inside her raw, twitching hole.

She hadn't moved in what felt like forever.

She couldn't.

Dante stood by the window, shirtless, watching the sun peek through the haze over Bissonnet. He lit a Black & Mild and took a long, slow drag, exhaling through his nose as he looked down at her like a mechanic admiring a car he'd stripped to frame.

"You still breathin'," he muttered, tapping ash into an old fast food cup on the sill. "Ain't bad. Some bitches break before sunrise."

Krystal-May whimpered faintly.

It was the only sound she had left.

Dante stepped back toward her, his Timberlands heavy and slow on the linoleum. He crouched beside her, lifted the back of her booty shorts just enough to check the plug--still there. Still locked in place. Still flaring her wide, thick base snug against the sweaty vinyl.

Dante leaned in close, voice low and cruel.

"You thought this motel floor was your rock bottom?" he asked. "Nah, bitch. This the lobby."

He stood and walked toward the bed, yanking one of the motel pillows off and tossing it beside her without care. Then he crouched down by the radiator and grabbed the chain he'd pulled out earlier--a short length of thick steel with a heavy-duty clip, scraped and rusted from use.

"You ain't runnin'," he said. "Ain't no doors in this life. Just corners."

He clicked the chain onto the back of her pink collar--tight, snug, final. Then looped the other end through the rusted pipe of the radiator and padlocked it closed.

"You gon' sleep right there," he said, standing back up.

Krystal-May made a small sound. Not protest. Not even pleading.

Just exhaustion.

Her head sank into the pillow. Her knees curled in slightly, ass still raised by the way the plug filled her, stretching her even in sleep.

Dante took another deep drag on his black and mild and stood over her for a while longer.

"You did alright for your first night," he muttered. "Didn't piss yourself. Didn't scream too loud. That's somethin'."

He turned toward the window again.

Outside, the light was brighter now. The city was waking up.

Bissonnet was waking up.

And night would come again soon.

"I'm gon' get you a new fit while you rest," he said over his shoulder. "Somethin' louder. Brighter. So they don't miss you in them headlights."

He turned back and smirked.

"Tonight, bitch? You walk."

Then he left her there--chained, plugged, filthy--eyes shut, face pressed to a motel pillow, passing out and her future already written.