FTM fucked by 3 males. Part 8: THE MECHANIC.

PART 8: THE MECHANIC
The one with the tattoo lets out a short laugh and unties me from the tree. The leash goes back to my collar, and this time he’s holding it. A sharp tug forces me to stand, and my legs barely hold me up: my pussy and ass burn, piss slides down my tits and gets into my heels, making me slip with every step.

“On all fours, bitch. Two-legged whores walk, but you’re not one of those.”

They force me down into the dirt and I start crawling behind Tyson along the path back. Gravel digs into my knees and palms, the transparent top stuck to me with piss rides up every time I move my ass, leaving it exposed to the streetlight. There are still a few lingering onlookers in the bushes; I hear laughter and a “look at that slut” before the tug of the leash forces me to keep going.

We come out onto the street. Two thirty in the morning, the town dead, and me on all fours along the shoulder with a rottweiler in front and three guys behind. The tattooed one walks with the leash wrapped around his fist, yanking me every time I slow down. The tallest one kicks me in the ass with the toe of his boot when I stop to rest.

“Even dogs can take more than you,” he mutters.

We pass the sports center, the corner bar with its shutters down, the dumpster where the tattooed guy makes me stop. He grabs me by the nape and shoves my head inside the dumpster. It smells like stale garbage, torn bags.

“Find yourself something to wear that isn’t that shitty top. Or better not, that way everyone will know what you are when the garbage truck comes by.”

He laughs, but pulls me out and we keep going. Two streets later, a car slows down beside us. The driver rolls down the window and looks at my naked ass, moving side to side with each catlike step.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“A bitch who needs more males,” the tattooed one answers without stopping. “You in? We’re heading to the garage.”

The guy parks the car and joins in. He’s wearing a blue work overall, sleeves rolled up, mechanic’s hands. I guess he’s in his forties, mustache, bald. He looks at me the way you look at a purebred dog: with curiosity, without pity.

We reach a communal garage, one of those with a metal door that opens with a remote. Inside there’s an old van, toolboxes, a mattress thrown in a corner with a filthy sheet, and a bucket. It smells of diesel and grease. The tattooed one unclips my leash and points to the mattress.

“There. Face down. And open that mouth wide for the mechanic.”

I crawl to the mattress. The mechanic unbuttons his overalls and isn’t wearing anything underneath: a thick, uncircumcised cock, the pink tip already shiny. He plants it in my face.

“Clean that with your tongue, bitch. It’s been two days since I washed it, I want you to feel all of it.”

It smells like sweat and old soap. I suck it as best I can, my mouth full of salt and hair, while th...