The story is not an endorsement of the main character’s view on race or any other minority groups; it does not reflect the author’s values. It is a different approach to sensationalize.
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Alex’s Long Night, part 1 of 2
As I stepped out of my apartment building at 11:37 PM with my purse, the air in Fall, crisp as a freshly sliced apple, wrapped around my exposed thighs like a lover's forbidden caress, sending electric shivers up my spine that made my nipples harden painfully against the thin fabric of my top. The moon hung bloated and voyeuristic above the jagged skyline, casting silver-blue shadows across the cracked concrete beneath my stilettos. Five blocks away, the abandoned Westside Textile Factory throbbed with basslines so deep they rattled windows, its blacked-out windows occasionally flashing with strobes that illuminated the faces of smokers huddled outside. My apartment building, a decaying six-story walkup with rust-stained fire escapes and a perpetually broken intercom, stood in the heart of the Riverside District, where used needles collected in gutters like fallen autumn leaves and the air perpetually smelled of urine and desperation. The shortcut through Lowell Alley would slice ten minutes off my journey, though its dark and narrow passage between looming brick walls was notorious for muggings and worse. Compounded by the fact that these one-way streets and seemingly ever-ending construction signs made the rideshare drivers detour to no end. The danger of the neighborhood only heightened my arousal, my heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly against my ribcage, my pulse quickening with each step. My 28-inch waist, achieved through hundreds of daily crunches and a diet of protein shakes and steamed vegetables, flared dramatically into 35-inch wider-than-average-Asian hips and thighs that swayed hypnotically with each step, the result of punishing track workouts back in high school varsity, where I'd pushed through tears and muscle spasms. My jet-black hair fell in precisely styled 3-inch waves to the small of my back, each strand glistening with argan oil and texturizing spray that cost $47.99 per bottle. The hot iron had left microscopic burns on my fingertips this morning as I'd meticulously created the illusion of effortless femininity. In the harsh fluorescent glow of my bathroom, I painted my face with surgical precision: double-winged eyeliner in matte black, drawn exactly seven millimeters past my natural eyeline; false mink lashes in the “Bombshell” style, long enough to graze my brow bone when I blinked; and a sweep of NARS Orgasm blush, curved in flawless crescents that caught the sickly yellow light of the lone working streetlamp outside. My cheekbones seemed carved from warm marble, a perfect counterpoint to the glossy lipstick that radiated a simmering red passion.
I dressed in my favorite outfit: a matching push-up bra that accentuated my assets and laced panties from Victoria’s Secret, a short black pleated skirt with knife-sharp creases that barely grazed the mid-thigh, revealing a tantalizing strip of olive skin between the hem and the top of the stockings. My tight white crop top, tissue-thin Egyptian cotton that cost a week's wages, hugged my hormone-induced A-cup breasts like a second skin, the fabric nearly translucent under the yellow streetlights. Midnight-black sheer stockings with delicate, reinforced bands encircled my thighs, showcasing my long, hairless legs, which I'd often spent time exfoliating and moisturizing until they gleamed like polished marble. My twice-pierced ears dangled large silver hoop earrings, each three inches in diameter, swaying hypnotically and catching the light with every calculated movement of my neck. On my left wrist, a delicate gold bracelet, hand-engraved with "Owned" in flowing cursive script, a sixteenth birthday gift from my white stepdad, jangled with the musical timbre of expensive submission. My feet were imprisoned in black stiletto four-inch Louboutins, their iconic soles flashing like warning signals with each step, the pointed toes forcing my weight forward onto balls of feet that had long ago developed protective calluses. The shoes forced my hips to sway with mechanical precision, making my legs appear endless, my posture a testament to hundreds of hours of painful practice. My tiny Asian clit, now tucked away in the blush-pink lace panties and locked in a custom-fitted stainless steel chastity cage that my stepdad had ordered from a specialist in Berlin, tingled with a confusing cocktail of vulnerability and excitement. I was heading to the venue, craving both a vodka shot and the intoxicating thrill of admiring glances from strangers who would never suspect my secret. Passing as a girl wasn't just my greatest achievement; it was my salvation, my escape from the worthless Asian boy I used to be, whose reflection I'd punched into shattered glass on my fourteenth birthday.
A little reminiscing about my past self: the dim light of my bedroom cast soft shadows on the walls, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and my lingering perfume. I knelt before my white stepfather on the plush rug, my long black hair cascading over my shoulders, still disheveled from our earlier passion. My slim waist and long legs were accentuated by the lacy lingerie he'd chosen for me, and my chastity cage, a constant reminder of my submission. He lounged on the edge of the bed, his portly frame commanding the space, his Ph.D.-earned intellect shining through his knowing eyes as he stroked my cheek with a thick finger.
"Alex," he began, his voice deep and authoritative, pulling me closer by my gold "Owned" bracelet. "You've come so far, my little Asian flower. But tell me, do you remember the boy you once were? The one trapped in that fragile shell?" I nodded, my false lashes fluttering, a shiver running through me. "Yes, Daddy. I was... lost. Always wanting, but never wanted."
He chuckled softly, his hand trailing down to my hormone-softened chest, pinching a swollen nipple gently. "Ah, yes. That's the Asian boy's dilemma, isn't it? In this world, you're seen as inherently unappealing to Western women. Those beautiful girls you had crushed on in high school, the White and Korean ones with their smooth skin and s-curves... they slipped through your fingers like sand; while you were trapped in that unrequited desire, day after day, your heart aching for what you could never have."
My breath hitched, memories flooding back, the misery, the trembling fear. "It burned me, Daddy. I dreamed of hugging them, kissing them... but I was too scared, too drawn yet too weak. They went for stronger men, wealthier ones... white ones like you."
"Exactly, my sweet, slutty daughter," he responded, leaning down to kiss my forehead, his lips warm and possessive. "Because Asian boys are viewed as effeminate, wimpy, and tiny in a world that demands jocks. Even if you were accepted by a white woman, your boy-clit could never give her the satisfaction, turning her desire into something cruel and tragic. Your delicate features, your slim build... they weren't flaws; they were signals. Whispers from fate that your true purpose wasn't to chase women, but to become one. To surrender, to serve real men of other races, superior men like me, who can give you the purpose in life and the dominance you crave."
Learning to walk in heels had been a journey. A couple of years ago, when I had fully committed to transitioning, my stepdad gifted me my first pair, towering red pumps. I wobbled like a newborn fawn, ankles twisting on our apartment’s hardwood floors. I’d cry in frustration, falling to my knees, blisters burning my feet. But he’d pull me up by the hair, whispering, “Good girls strut for their daddies.” He made me practice for hours: chest out, ass arched, correcting my stance until my calves screamed. Punishment for stumbling was swift: a belt across my bare ass, leaving my skin red and throbbing. The reward was divine, a deep kiss, his hands groping me, reminding me why I endured. Not long after, I glided effortlessly, each click of my heels a symphony of femininity and newfound strength. Going out in public was another challenge, both physically and mentally. In time, my walking and sitting postures both improved, as well as my hand gestures and conversational demeanor. He also taught me a common technique known as the away-from-the-spotlight mindset, often employed in public speaking. One can manage anxiety easily by shifting one's focus from oneself and one's fear of being judged to the audience; you can counter the spotlight effect just like that. At first, the teenagers at the malls were the scariest because they were intentionally cruel and abrasive with their words. Eventually, as I transitioned further, my stepdad and I would comfortably dine out at restaurants with ease, and people presumed us to be father and daughter without question.
But not all the guidance from my stepdad was fun and games. Every night before bed, in the soft glow of our bedroom lamp, my daddy would command me to perform the ritual, a deliberate act of devotion to reinforce my submissive character. It began with the insertion: I'd kneel on the plush rug in my silky nightgown, parting my smooth, hairless ass cheeks with trembling fingers, the cool air teasing my exposed entrance. The butt plug, a sleek black silicone cone with a flared base, glistened under a layer of lube I'd applied, its tapered tip pressing gently at first against my tight ring, then pushing in with a slow, insistent twist. I'd gasp as it stretched me inch by inch, the initial burn giving way to a deep, filling pressure that made my locked clit twitch in its cage, my body adjusting with shallow breaths until the widest part popped past the muscle, seating itself snugly inside with a satisfying fullness that radiated waves of submissive warmth. Variations came in shapes and sizes, sometimes a vibrating one that hummed low against my prostate, other times a jeweled plug for aesthetic humiliation, or one with ridges that caught and pulled deliciously during entry, each insertion tailored to heighten my awareness of who I was and always will be.
Then, with him lounging on the bed, watching intently, I'd take the realistic dildo, modeled after his own impressive cock, into my mouth, starting with tentative licks along the veined shaft, my crimson lips tracing the contours from base to tip, savoring the neutral silicone taste mixed with a hint of sweetness from flavored lube. I'd swirl my tongue around the head in slow circles, flicking the underside as if teasing a real frenulum, building saliva to make it slick and messy, droplets trailing down my chin. The sucking followed: hollowing my cheeks for deep pulls, bobbing rhythmically with varying depths, shallow at first to build anticipation, then plunging it to the back of my throat, gagging softly as I practiced suppressing the reflex, my eyes watering but locked on his approving gaze. Variations included holding it deep for counts of ten, mimicking a face-fuck with rapid thrusts, or incorporating moans and slurps for auditory submission, sometimes even humming to simulate vibration. "Listen, my child, this is gonna mold you into something special. Your future partner won’t be thrilled with a gal who’s about to nip and bite in the heat of the moment, fumbling the good stuff in bed. Get this down, and you’ll know exactly how to drive them wild, and keep yourself satisfied, for life," he'd say with a smirk, his voice firm yet affectionate.
“Oh, darling, a gag reflex isn’t cute or sexy. You want to take it deep to the esophagus, smooth as silk, letting it slide down like it’s your calling. Embrace the moment, be that sweet little Asian vixen, always ready, always hungry to please your king.” Occasionally, the overwhelming sensation of the plug pressing against my prostate and the rhythmic sucking would push me beyond control, my boy-clit releasing a small, involuntary load onto the floor, a shameful yet exhilarating spill of my submissiveness. My stepdaddy would rise, his expression a mix of amusement and somber authority, retrieving a towel to wipe the seeds from the hardwood. Whenever he had that look, I knew better not to move an inch. He'd smear the warm, sticky mess into my long black hair, then drag it across my face, coating my flushed cheeks and lips with my own essence. While it’s dripping, with a low growl, he'd command, "How many times do I have to tell you? Lick it up, you filthy little slut! Swallow every drop of your pathetic load for your daddy," I'd comply without hesitation, the bitter taste lingering as a reminder of my place.
At first, I found the ritual tedious, dreadful, and painful; the plug's pressure made my ass ache, and holding the dildo in my throat for the required ten minutes strained my jaw, leaving me gagging and teary-eyed. It felt like a chore, a mechanical exercise in obedience that tested my limits, my mind wandering to discomfort rather than devotion. But over time, I learned the joy of mastering this craft, the way the fullness in my ass heightened every sensation, turning pain into a throbbing pleasure that synced with the rhythmic sucking, my body responding with involuntary moans. It became a meditative bliss, a nightly affirmation of my transformation, where each deep throat brought waves of submissive ecstasy, pleasing my stepdad and fulfilling my deepest cravings.
Other than hormone therapy and laser hair removal, my strict and all-knowing stepdad surprised me with one last gift, a permanent marking of my identity. We visited a remote tattoo shop around town, the hum of the needle filling the air with a rhythmic buzz. The artist, a burly man with ink-stained arms, grinned as my stepdad described the design: a delicate tramp stamp above my tailbone, with the phrase "BWC only" bold and clear, sat nicely on an elegant succubus symbol. As I lay face down on the padded table, my skirt lifted, my skin prickling with anticipation as the needle began its work. The sharp sting danced across my lower back, each prick a blend of pain and pride, my stepdad’s hand resting firmly on my shoulder, his presence grounding me. My body tensed with every line, but his soothing voice, “You’re perfect, my girl,” melted the discomfort into a warm glow. By the end, the mirror revealed the vivid red and black artwork, a lasting testament to my surrender, and I felt a surge of belonging and conviction as he traced it with his finger, sealing my devotion. This branding marked the release of my last ounce of biological male spirit, opening the way for who I was meant to be, forever written in ink.
Now, as I walked, my heels clicking rhythmically on the sidewalk, I noticed them: a group of three white guys lounging around a dilapidated bus stop, beers in hand, laughing loudly. They were the type I fantasized about: tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding raw American masculinity. The first had a buzz cut, tattoos snaking up his muscular arms, and his tank top stretched tight over a chiseled chest. The second was bearded and burly, like a lumberjack, his flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairy torso. The third had a lean build, with piercing blue eyes that locked onto me first, his smirk sharp and predatory. Their stares burned into my skin, and my heart quickened. Were they admiring me? Or had they seen through my illusion?
“Hey, sweetheart,” Buzz-cut called, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Looking fine today. Where are you headed?” I smiled coyly, lowering my eyes as I’d been trained, submissive, inviting. My false lashes cast shadows on my blushed cheeks as I batted them, my earrings swaying sensually. “Just getting drinks,” I replied in my soft, practiced feminine voice, adding a sway to my hips as I tried to pass them. The bearded one stepped forward, blocking my path. He was massive, easily 6’3”, towering over my 5’7” frame. His breath reeked of beer and cigarettes as he leaned in close. “Drinks? Nah, you look like you’re hunting for something else. What’s a pretty little Asian thing like you doing all alone?”
My cheeks flushed deeper under the blush, my bracelet jangling as I shifted nervously. This was the attention I craved, desired, and degraded in one intoxicating breath. But the lean one circled behind me, his eyes narrowing. “Hold up,” he said, grabbing my arm firmly. His touch sent electric sparks through me: rough and commanding. “Something’s off. Those shoulders…. Holy shit, dudes, this isn’t a chick. It’s a fucking tranny!”
The word hit like a slap, and a cold wave of fear washed over me. My heart pounded, my stomach twisting into knots. I’d spent years perfecting my appearance, enduring hormone therapy, and learning the walk in stilettos, all to be seen as a girl. Now, exposed by strangers, panic seized me. My voice trembled as I stammered, “P-please… I-I’m just trying to be a girl…” Tears welled in my eyes, smudging my eyeliner, my body tensing to flee. The humiliation burned, a stark reminder of the fragile illusion I’d built. I felt small and vulnerable, the weight of their judgment crushing the confidence I’d fought to gain.
Buzz-cut laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the air. “No way! Let me check.” His big hand cupped my ass through the skirt, squeezing hard. I gasped, my body arching involuntarily, my hoop earrings brushing my neck. The invasion shocked me, my initial fear spiking into a mix of dread and confusion. “Feels real soft… But yeah, I bet there’s a surprise down there. You like dressing like a slut, huh? Teasing real men?”
I tried to pull away, but the bearded one grabbed my other arm, pinning me between them. “Don’t run, princess. We just wanna see what you’re hiding.” His free hand slid up my thigh, under the skirt, fingers brushing the edge of my panties. My breath hitched, pain and an unfamiliar thrill mingling as his calloused skin grazed my smooth, waxed flesh. I was hairless everywhere below my eyebrows, just as my stepfather preferred. “Mmm, smooth as silk. You shave for us? Or for some daddy who owns your ass?” Whenever someone asks not to run, that’s a trigger word for the majority of people to do the opposite; a natural fight-or-flight response as a result. I intuitively tried to shrug my arm off from the pinned position by surprising him, turning away from the three delinquents to take off. In that brief moment, the bearded one saw through my intention from a mile away, one jet step, and one quick strike to my stomach. All it took was one painful sucker punch; I was on all fours, a bruise for certain when tomorrow came around. Fearing I would become prey to be played with by its predators, “Help!” I screamed. “Don’t you dare, Pocahontas! One more scream, you’ll eat another one.” The bearded one yelled at me in an intimidating tone.
The street was quiet, but they weren’t satisfied with just bullying me here. Buzz-cut leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “Let’s take this somewhere private. You’re gonna show us everything.” Before I could respond, the bearded one tightened his grip on my arm, and the lean one pushed me forward, guiding me away from the street. My heart pounded, a mix of fear and twisted excitement, as they steered me toward a darker alley just off the sidewalk. My stilettos clicked unevenly on the cracked pavement, the sound echoing off the narrow walls, the headlights’ beams casting long shadows behind us. Vegetation crept through the gaps, wild weeds and moss clinging to the concrete, a testament to the alley’s neglect. The air grew colder, damp, smelling of decay and stale beer.
