Prim Nice Transsexual Craves Her Handsome Driving Instructor's Cock

Corinne kept her knees together in the passenger seat the way a proper woman should, pencil skirt smoothed flat over her stockings, blouse buttoned to the throat. At twenty-eight she had built her days on that primness: neat work at the office, a quiet voice, heels that clicked instead of clattered, lipstick that never smeared. Ambrose sat beside her, thirty-five and handsome in a way that dropped her stomach, one broad hand easy on the wheel of the instruction car and the other resting on his thigh. Every lesson, that hand made her clench. Every lesson, her cock strained against her panties while she pretended to watch the road.

She had signed up to learn the highway merge. She had stayed for the way his voice dropped when he corrected her. Turn sooner. Ease off. Good. The praise landed between her legs like a palm. By the fourth evening she was wet before she buckled in. By the sixth she was imagining his cock splitting her mouth while she nodded at the mirror and murmured yes, she saw the cyclist. She told herself decent women did not think that way. Then she caught her reflection in the side glass, collar perfect, eyes hungry, and knew the truth. She was a dirty slag in a lady's clothes, and the only thing she needed was his cock. Now.

The tension thickened with every mile. His cologne. The flex of his forearm when he reached across to steady the wheel near her knee, close enough that heat jumped the inch of air. The casual way he said her name, Corinne, as if he already owned the mouth it came from. She answered in her small polite voice and squeezed her thighs until the stockings whispered. Her hole fluttered empty against the seat.

When he dismissed her at the curb with a professional nod, she did not go home. She drove the practice route once, badly, palms slick on the wheel, then turned toward the address on his card. His house. Evening light on the porch. Her heels on the walk. Her cock aching so hard she had to pause and breathe. She looked like a woman arriving for tea, ivory blouse and charcoal skirt, sheer stockings held by a garter belt no one was supposed to see. She felt like a slut who had come to be used.

She almost lost her nerve on the step. Her palm was damp on the bell. Inside, a light moved. She pressed her thighs together and realized a wet spot was already darkening her panties, shame and hunger knotted so tight she could not tell them apart. She needed Ambrose to open that door, see past the careful lipstick, and put his cock in her like the filthy thing she had finally admitted she was.

The door opened. Ambrose filled the frame, sleeves rolled, surprise crossing his face and then something hotter, pleased and unmistakable. He looked her over, heels and skirt and the tremble she could not hide, and did not send her away.

"Corinne." Lower than in the car. "Lesson's over."

"I know." Her prim voice cracked. She stepped inside because he moved aside and because she wanted to, because another second on that porch would have broken her. The hallway smelled like him. "I can't wait anymore. I need your cock. I've been sitting beside you wanting it like a dirty slag, and that is exactly what I am, and I need it now. Please."

His mouth curved. "Say it cleaner. Say what you came for."

"Please use me." She held his eyes, cheeks hot, voice small and proper and filthy. "I'm a prim little trans slag and I came to your house to suck your cock. I want you to spank me and fuck me. I am asking. I want it."

"Then get on your knees."

She dropped. The pencil skirt rode. Stockings flashed pale against the rug. Her fingers shook on his belt and he let her fumble, because the eagerness was the point. When his cock came free it was thick, heavy, already hard, the head flushed, and she made a small ruined sound and took it into her mouth as if she had been starving for it since the first lesson.

She sucked him sloppy and eager, spit running down his shaft, gagging herself on purpose while Ambrose ruined her neat hair with his fist.

"Look at you," he said, rocking his hips in short thrusts that bumped the back of her throat. "Prim little trans slag. All buttoned up in my car, yes sir, no sir, and now you're drooling on my cock in the hallway. That's what you needed, isn't it? A mouthful. A reason to stop pretending."

She moaned around him, nodding as much as the grip allowed, sucking harder. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet house. She licked under the head, traced the vein, took him deep until her throat fluttered, pulled off only to gasp his name and dive back down.

He hauled her up before he finished, spun her by the waist, and bent her over the arm of the sofa. The skirt went to her hips. The panties came down to mid-thigh, trapped by the garter straps. Her stockinged ass was pale and offered, and he brought his palm down hard.

The smack cracked through the room. She yelped, then pushed back for another, shameless.

"Count them."

"One. Please."

He spanked her again, and again, heating both cheeks until they bloomed pink above the dark bands of her stockings. Each blow jolted her cock against the sofa cushion and punched a cry out of her that did not stay polite. She was dripping. He spread her with one hand and teased her hole with two fingers, circling, pressing, slicking her with spit, not quite giving her the shove she was begging for.

"Tight," he said. "You've been clenching on nothing all those lessons, haven't you? Sitting there in your little skirt, hole empty, cock hard, smiling like a lady."

"Yes. Ambrose, please. Tease me, spank me, I need your fingers, I need—"

He spanked her once more, a sharp crack that made her toes curl in her heels, then sank a finger in slow while she sobbed with lust. A second finger followed, stretching, curling, withdrawing to circle the rim until she was shaking and pushing back onto nothing.

"Dirty slag," he murmured against her ear. "You'll get my cock when I decide you've earned the mess."

He pulled his fingers free, shiny, and fed them to her mouth. Corinne sucked them clean without being told, tongue diligent, eyes wet. Then he sat on the sofa and dragged her back down between his knees by the hair, firm enough to make her moan, careful enough that she could have pulled away and did not.

"Open."

She opened. Ambrose fucked her mouth properly this time, both hands in her hair, hips rolling, cock sliding over her tongue and into her throat in deep wet strokes. Spit strung from her chin to his balls and pattered on the rug. She gagged and took it, mascara starting to run, moaning like the dirty whore she had stopped pretending not to be. He praised her and degraded her in the same breath. Good girl. Filthy mouth. Prim little cocksucker. Look at those stockings. Look at you drooling for it. She hollowed her cheeks and let him use her, hands braced on his thighs, heels tucked under her, every inch offered.

When her jaw ached and her lipstick was a ruin, he pulled out with a wet sound, stood her up, and bent her over the sofa again. He spit on her hole. He worked two fingers back in, then three, stretching her open while she pushed her stockinged ass at him and begged in that small proper voice that made the words filthier.

"Please fuck my ass. Please, I need your cock in me. I've been so good and so neat and I need you to ruin me. Spank me and fuck me. I want it. I want all of it. Please, Ambrose."

He spanked her, left and right and left, until the pink went deep and she was shaking, then lined the head up and pushed.

The stretch burned sweet and huge. She cried out and stayed pushed back, taking him, inch after thick inch, breathing through it, until his hips met her hot ass and she was full in a way the driving seat had never let her imagine without soaking herself. He held there, letting her feel the throb, one hand spread on her lower back, the other gripping a garter strap.

"Still want it?" he asked, voice rough.

"Yes. Green. Please don't stop. Fuck me."

He started to pound, deep and hard, and she moaned like a whore.

"Yes. Yes. Use my ass. Harder. Please."

He spanked her while he fucked her, palm cracking against flesh that jumped around his cock. The mix of sting and fullness made her cock leak a steady string onto the cushion.

"Beg prettier. I want the lady voice."

"Please, sir," she gasped, small and ladylike and wrecked. "Please keep fucking your prim little trans slag. Please don't stop. My ass is yours. Spank me again. Make me take every inch of your cock. I came to your house for this. I need it."

He gave it to her. He grabbed her hips and drove deep, balls slapping, cock owning her hole in long ruthless strokes that shoved the air out of her lungs. She reached under herself, desperate, and wrapped a hand around her own cock, but a voice from the hall stopped her cold and hot at once.

"Started without me."

Brigitte stood in the doorway. Thirty-two, Ambrose's wife, and trans in the way Corinne recognized at a glance and felt in her bones: lovely curves, a pretty cock half-hard, and nothing on her but sheer stockings and a smile that said she had been listening and liked what she heard. Her eyes traveled over Corinne's reddened ass, the cock buried in it, the ruined blouse, and pleasure settled on her mouth.

"She's pretty," Brigitte said. "And she's dripping on our sofa. May I play?"

"She's begging," Ambrose said, still moving, still deep. "Ask her."

Corinne twisted to look, lipstick smeared, hole clenching hard around him at the sight of another trans woman in stockings. Want hit her so cleanly she nearly came. "Yes. Please. I want you both. I came here needing his cock and I want you to use me too. Join us. I want it. I want you."

Brigitte's smile sharpened into something hungry. She crossed the room, ran a hand over Corinne's spanked ass, appreciating the heat, then reached under and wrapped her fingers around Corinne's cock. The tease was cruel and perfect, light strokes, thumb skating the slick head, never quite enough. Corinne whimpered and fucked back onto Ambrose, chasing both.

"Sensitive," Brigitte murmured. "Prim little thing, leaking like a faucet. Let's see if that mouth stays polite."

Ambrose pulled out just long enough to turn Corinne onto her back on the cushions, stockings gleaming, skirt bunched at her waist, hole gaping and shiny with spit. He pushed back into her ass from the front, folding her, heels by his shoulders, and the new angle made her see white. Brigitte climbed up and sat on her face.

Corinne licked eagerly, pulling Brigitte down by the thighs. Brigitte's cock rested against her forehead and cheek, heavy and warming, while Corinne's tongue worked her hole and the soft skin behind her balls, serving her, moaning into her. Brigitte ground down and kept teasing Corinne's cock with one hand, denying the stroke that would finish her, laughing softly when Corinne bucked and Ambrose drove deeper.

"Greedy slag. Eat me. Get your tongue in. Good girl. Filthy girl."

They shifted when the sofa complained. Ambrose sat back, cock wet and hard, and Brigitte straddled him, sinking onto him with a low broken moan, riding him in a slow grind that made her stockings whisper. Corinne knelt between their legs and worshipped whatever she could reach, his balls, the stretched place where Brigitte took him, the underside of Brigitte's cock when it slapped her lips.

Then they spit-roasted her. Ambrose claimed her mouth, hands firm, fucking her throat in steady strokes while Brigitte knelt behind, spanked her ass twice, and teased her hole with the head of her own cock, circling, pressing, not quite entering. "Not yet, pretty slag. His cock is the one you crawled here for. Mine gets your mouth."

They swapped. Ambrose took the ass again, slamming deep, and Brigitte fed Corinne her cock, one hand guiding, the other smacking her thigh. Spit everywhere. Spanking whenever a palm was free. Corinne gasped around whichever cock filled her and begged in fragments when her mouth was empty, both trans women used together, sweaty and loud, until Ambrose's rhythm broke and he snarled her name.

He spanked her once more, hard enough that her ass jumped, and buried himself to the hilt. Corinne felt him pulse, hot and thick, flooding her ass with his load while she gagged around Brigitte's cock and drooled on the rug. Cum leaked around his shaft and down toward her stockings.

He pulled out slow. Her hole fluttered and spilled. Brigitte slipped free of her mouth, shoved her cheek down, and spread those reddened cheeks with both hands.

"Hold still, slag. Don't you clench it shut."

She licked it out of her. Tongue broad and greedy, pushing in to scoop Ambrose's cum and swallow, then spitting a mouthful back onto the open hole just to lap it up again, noisy and mean. Her fingers finally closed hard around Corinne's cock and stroked, slick and fast. Corinne came like an animal, face down, ass licked open and shining, her own spend striping the rug, while Ambrose slapped his wet cock against her stocking.

Brigitte slapped her ass, wiped cum across her mouth, and made her suck the fingers clean.

"Stuff my ass again and make her eat it out of me while I choke on her cock," Corinne rasped, hole still gaping, cum on her chin. "I'm coming back to this house so you can pump your prim little trans slag so full it runs down her stockings and she licks the floor for whatever you waste."