The Bamboo Ceiling Ch. 13

Dear Reader,

I apologize for my long hiatus. Work has been hectic, but I plan to start writing again in earnest. Please email me via the site's feedback feature if you have any suggestions or spot any typographical errors. I'm just an amateur rando who writes smut for fun, so any help is appreciated. My goal is to reply to every (constructive) email.

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This story contains graphic content and potential trauma cues for sensitive readers. Specifically, this story contains themes of non-consent and forced feminization. If this is not the kind of story that you can handle or would enjoy, then I recommend backing out now. This is purely a work of fiction, by and for consenting adults. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintended and purely coincidental.

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Chapter 13: Humiliation

The taste of cock permeated my mouth as Frieda led me to a bathroom.

"Be quick, Bitch," Frieda's icy voice trailed behind me as she unlocked the door and ushered me in. "Under the vanity mirror you'll find toothbrushes, mouthwash, and whatever makeup you'll need to touch up. Time is money; if you're not ready in ten minutes, then I'm coming in."

She needed not add more specificity to this threat. I gulped and hurried to clean myself up. As I hurriedly worked to prepare myself for my next encounter, I felt like an object that was being cleaned off between uses. Indeed, as far as Frieda—the Madam here—and the clients were concerned, that was exactly what I was. Just a warm, breathing sex object to be passed around and used.

Nine minutes later, I timidly walked out of the bathroom and looked around. As the night progressed, more clients poured into the main hall. Most of the clients were older men wearing varying arrangements of leisurewear. Most came alone, though I spotted one group of young men—I estimated that ranged 25-35 in age—wearing suits and whooping as they ogled the merchandise. As more clients came out of the elevator, more ladyboys entered the room to greet the clients and keep them occupied.

As much as I loathed and feared Frieda, I admired her for the efficient system she had created. No client went more than a few moments without being 'entertained' by a sex worker. Each worker wore the same plastered smile as they guided clients to benches or out of the hall toward the hotel rooms. Not one guest was ever left to wander by himself. In another life, Frieda could have been a top-tier hospitality manager.

Near the bathroom that I had just left, two of the girls sat sidesaddle on a man's lap, each occupying one of his thighs. They took turns deeply kissing each other, then turning to deeply kiss the man. He wore a gold and silver short-sleeved button down, with khaki cargo shorts. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, allowing a tuft of chest hair to poke through. In his seated position as he leaned in toward the girls, I could see part of his hairy stomach poking out the underside of his shirt. I assumed him to be another American tourist who came to enjoy the local 'cuisine.'

Though he looked disgusting, the two ladyboys could not have appeared more enthusiastic to be on his lap. A trickle of drool escaped from each of their mouths as they passed from each other to the disgusting man. Their eyes were slightly squinted which, in conjunction with their O-shaped expressions and hands all over his chest and shoulders, gave them the appearance of druggies in the middle of a fat-white-cock bender.

After a few moments of this, the man pushed one of the girls down by her shoulders, guiding her to kneel between his thighs. As she frantically worked at his belt and zipper, the girl who was still on his lap shifted herself to straddle his right knee, before leaning in and whispering into his ear.

As abhorrent as I found this display, I felt a tingling sensation between my thighs, traveling through my clitty. Despite my revulsion for this man, the scene somehow felt . . . right. A voice in my head told me that all was as it should be; those girls were doing their duty, and each were lucky to be used by the masculine presence. I ran the rest of the scene through my mind, envisioning the man's face as the ladyboy between his legs worked his cock until it twitched and convulsed. I imagined her hungry, eager expression as his member would explode into her mouth.

I exhaled longingly at the thought. And I gulped several times to clear out the saliva that filled my mouth.

As I continued to scan the room, I saw something in the room's northwest corner that surprised me. Indeed, it wasn't the scene itself, but who was playing it that caught my attention.

I hadn't expected to see female clients. And at first, I thought that perhaps the two women I spotted were just unusually dressed workers. But the longer I watched the pair, the more I was convinced that these women had come for the brothel's services.

In total, four people sat on the bench. On the outside were two ladyboys who I recognized from earlier. Their collars gave away that they were workers here and that their assigned names were 'Sugar' and 'Spice.' But in the middle, sat two well-dressed women; a blonde, Caucasian woman in a blue, pinstriped pantsuit, and an East-Asian woman in a bright yellow sundress. The white woman and the East-Asian woman—I guessed that the latter was Japanese—each had their hands possessively on the ladyboy sitting to their outside. They spoke to each other, occasionally exchanging kisses before doing the same with their respective workers.

I stood in shock, staring stupidly at the group. Clearly, these women were clients, not workers. I gathered from my short time here that the workers showed affection to each other only performatively, and to please their western clientele.

It surprised me to see an Asian, fem-presenting person acting as a client. Though upon reflection, objectification within the Asian community was not something I was unfamiliar with. Racism within the Asian community has always been a reality for me. Specifically, a Vietnamese or Thai person may be more likely to be talked down to by a Han Chinese or a Japanese person than a white person. But I had never seen such blatant condescension as I did now, seeing this Japanese woman at a Thai brothel.

A warm hand on my lower back pulled me from my rumination. Frieda leaned her body into mine, whispering into my ear as we both watched the unusual group.

"The blonde woman in the pantsuit is Beatrice. She's an architect from Los Angeles. The Japanese woman in the yellow sundress is Lucy, an English teacher."

Frieda then wrapped her arm around my shoulder and leaned her face into mine as we both stared at the seemingly out-of-place pair of women. Her posture indicated that she was letting me in on a bit of juicy gossip. Even if Frieda looked at me as a piece of furniture, she couldn't pass up the opportunity to spill tea. And as she explained Beatrice's story, I understood how anyone could be interested in the duo who sat across the room from us.

Beatrice was an American woman who used to take frequent trips to Thailand with her husband. While she would enjoy the sights and the local curry dishes, her husband would be galivanting around, enjoying a different kind of 'cuisine.' Occasionally, Beatrice would join her husband on his escapades. She played it off as if she was the 'cool wife' who facilitated getting her husband laid on vacations. Eventually, they both took a liking to Thailand's MtF sex workers.

It's unclear whether Beatrice always had a thing for t-girls or developed her interest alongside her husband. But eventually, she started coming to the brothels without her husband. When her husband came down with a mysterious illness, she would leave him in his Los Angeles hospital to come to Thailand by herself. After a year of this, her husband mysteriously died of systemic organ failure. The doctors never pinpointed what caused his condition. But shortly after her husband's suspicious death, Beatrice sold her Los Angeles house and moved her little architecture firm to Thailand.

Last year, Beatrice met Lucy online. Lucy, a bisexual English teacher from Japan, shared Beatrice's interest in shemales. Beatrice helped pay for Lucy to relocate to Thailand, where they both now live and work remotely. Beatrice and Lucy prefer to keep their connections with Frieda and with Lady Lumps—the fine establishment they currently occupied—under the radar.

"Clearly, Beatrice has a type," Frieda explained. She pressed against my back, signaling that we were to start walking toward the remarkable clients. "And I wonder if she and Lucy would like to spend some time with you. Let's go say 'hello' and make sure that they're satisfied. Remember: 'the customer is always right.'"

As we approached Beatrice and Lucy, Lucy spotted me first. She locked eyes with me, squinted in surprise, elbowed her wife, and pointed at me. When Beatrice saw the object of Lucy's fascination, a hungry smile grew on her face. They looked like children eying the same doll in a toy store.

Beatrice leaned into Lucy, and I could see the words, "I want that one," move across her lips. Lucy nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"Ladies," Frieda called as we approached, "I hope that Sugar and Spice are treating you well!" Frieda motioned toward the girls who sat on each side of Beatrice and Lucy. "Please let me know if there's anything else we can offer you to make your time here more enjoyable!"

Though I couldn't take my eyes off Beatrice and Lucy, I could hear Frieda's polite, porcelain-doll smile in her voice.

"It's lovely to be here again, Frieda," Lucy returned Frieda's polite smile, "It looks like you have yourself a Korean girl now!" Lucy then squared her gaze and looked at me coldly. "How much?"

I was taken aback by how crassly Lucy asked this question. Lucy spoke as if she was inquiring about the cost of a piece of art or of a car. Adding insult to injury, Lucy sat casually on the bench with one leg folded over the other and with her hands wrapped around her upper knee. She acted as if she was just making an offer for an expensive commodity, rather than a living, breathing, human being.

"For a fair-skinned piece of ass like this? 30,000 Baht." Frieda wrapped her hand possessively around my waist and caressed my side before patting my bottom. Frieda's tone and posture reminded me of a used car salesman kicking the tires and slapping the door before saying, 'For a shiny red sportscar like this?!'

I just stood there, obediently smiling while these women haggled over me. I was to have no input during this discussion. Indeed, to the women who were negotiating my 'price,' for me to voice an opinion would have been as ridiculous as a car voicing its opinion about who was renting it. I was less than human. I was a commodity. Two humans were negotiating the price of this commodity, and I would be beholden to whatever they agreed to. Eventually, Frieda took a hard stance on price.

"25,000 Baht is as low as I can go. I should tell you, ladies; Kimmy will only be with us for a short while. Her owner is in town on business and has loaned her to us in the meantime. If you don't try her tonight, then you might lose your chance!"

This seemed to be enough for Beatrice. She placed her hand on Lucy's arm, signaling that the Japanese woman should stand down.

"That's fine," Beatrice spoke for the first time, "If my Lucy wants this Korean bitch, then that's what my Lucy gets. Just charge whatever the bitch costs to my card and send her up to our room. We're just finishing up with Sugar and Spice here."

Sugar and Spice looked crestfallen when they learned that they wouldn't be joining the party. By contrast, I couldn't help but beam with pride that I'd been chosen over this duo. Why did I take so much pride in my cost? Why was I looking at Sugar and Spice with such a catty, petty smile?

"Of course," Frieda bowed and turned me away, "The bitch will be ready and in your room shortly."

As Frieda guided me toward the elevators, I wondered why I felt such pride at being chosen over Sugar and Spice. At first, I'd rationalized my feelings by telling myself that I'd rather be rented out by two clean-cut women than some disgusting man. And I told myself that Sugar and Spice felt the same. But the more I considered it, the more it occurred to me that I had internalized my own value as that of an object.

In short, Sugar, Spice, and I had been broken. In our heart of hearts, we have each accepted that we have no intrinsic value as humans. We only have instrumental value to those who own us and use us. In short, when your only value is how desirable of a toy you are, then to be chosen over another sissy is everything.

Frieda pushed the button to summon the elevator. She gently slid a card into my hand, then then pushed me inside.

"Go to floor six. Take the hall to the left to room 613. Lay on the bed and wait for Beatrice and Lucy to arrive. Do whatever they say. If I hear anything less than outstanding feedback, then I swear to God there will be hell to pay. Understood?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am!" I stammered just before the elevator doors closed.

I pushed the button for the sixth floor and followed Mistress Frieda's hurried instructions to Beatrice and Lucy's room. I waved the card above the electronic door latch, then quickly hurried inside and locked the door behind me.

The room looked like a run-of-the-mill, upscale hotel room. By contrast to the dark, seedy atmosphere of the brothel, the room was mostly white with light wood accents. The walls, ceiling, bedding, doors, desk, chairs, and small table were all the same shade of slightly off-white. By contrast, the door frame, window frame, and bedding were made of the same light-colored wood. It looked like lightly treated birch. As I looked at the bedding, I couldn't help but admire the thought that went into the décor.

I didn't have much time to admire my surroundings, as I soon heard the electronic lock unlatching again.

As Beatrice stepped inside and saw me, a devilish smile grew across her face.

"Look who's here waiting for us," Beatrice said to Lucy as Lucy followed her into the room, "Kimmy, wasn't it?"

I nodded submissively. I didn't know whether Beatrice would be okay with eye contact or speaking without permission. Accordingly, I assumed the same mannerism that I did at home when I was with James. That is, the mannerism of a whipped and cowering dog.

"Ahh," Lucy cooed at my response, "The poor thing looks terrified!"

"They really don't need to treat you so roughly," Beatrice chimed in, "Breaking a person's spirit really doesn't require that much . . . cruelty."

As if to demonstrate her point, Beatrice pointed to the bed. "Go keep our guest warm for me while I freshen up." Without hesitation, Lucy obeyed.

It didn't surprise me that Beatrice wore the pants in this relationship.

As Beatrice stepped into the bathroom, Lucy approached me like a cat approaching a mouse. She placed both her hands on the edge of the bed, then slowly slid herself forward, putting her knees on the bed one leg at a time.

I was lying on my side and started to lean forward to meet her. She shook her head as she placed her hand on my shoulder, pushing my back onto the bed. Lucy then angled herself above me, sliding each of her knees between my thighs. Her posture was like the posture that James would take before fucking me missionary style.

Lucy dipped her face below my chin, brushing her nose against my throat. Her lips softly pecked at my neck, before sinking her teeth into the side of my neck. From a distance, we probably looked like a scene out of a bad vampire movie.

As her teeth gently dug into the side of my neck, her hand traveled to my blouse, pulling it down and exposing my tits. As she worked at my neck with her tongue, lips, and teeth, Lucy slowly caressed each of my nipples between her thumb and index finger. A low but sharp exhale escaped my lips.

Electric sensations travelled down my neck and my tits and into my navel. My breathing increased in sound and intensity.

"Let's see what our little bitch is packing down here," Lucy whispered as her free hand traveled down my stomach toward my groin. As her fingers delicately wrapped around my little clitty, Lucy squealed in girlish delight.

"Oh my," she gasped, "It's so small! It's barely even there!"

My face flushed, and my cheeks burned as blood flowed to my face. Shame weighed upon me like a weighted blanket.

At a meta level, I was surprised by the shame I felt at Lucy's comment. As I laid on the bed, I was in no way passable as a man. James had seen to that. Or more accurately, Dr. Moffet, the plastic surgeon who James hired, saw to that. My face had a delicate, angular shape. My lips were full and plump from injections. My musculature was thin and soft from lack of exercise and from a low dose of hormone replacement therapy. My tits, ass, and hips were inflated with silicon, giving me a bimbo Barbie look. And my little dick was unable to get hard, as much of the spongy interior had been removed in the same procedure.

And yet, I felt shame at Lucy's comments about my small dick.

She continued, "I mean, fuck, most of the shemales here are pretty small, but I've never felt anything like this!"

Her hand slipped under my panties. She wiggled my little dicklet between her thumb and middle finger for a moment, before reaching down and squeezing my scrotum.

"Well, your balls are still there, so how the fuck are you so small?!" She laughed again.

My face felt fully red from shame. Lucy hovered over me, looking me in the eye. Shame prevented me from returning her gaze.

"Shit, no wonder you went fem," Lucy continued, "Genetics were not kind to you. You could barely please a hamster with this pathetic little thing! Can you even get hard?"

I gulped before replying. "N-no Miss. My master didn't want me to get hard anymore, so he made me get an operation."

"Aaahhh," Lucy nodded, speaking in a condescending, babyish tone, "Did your Daddy make you get a penile reduction?"

"Y-yes," I responded meekly.

"Well, that's disappointing," Beatrice's voice interrupted us as she emerged from the bathroom. "I like a ladyboy with a big cock. Those truly are the best of both worlds. But let's see what we're working with."

Beatrice crossed the room and crawled onto the bed. Beatrice brushed Lucy's hand away—Lucy obediently moved herself to allow Beatrice access to my body—then pulled my panties to the side, exposing my pathetic little member.

"Oh," Beatrice blinked, staring dumbfoundedly at my exposed groin, "Wow. Just . . . wow. Why did your master do this? Why not just get a biological woman? I mean, I didn't expect much from an Asian, much less a sissy, but this is just . . . sad."

I didn't know how to respond. Despite my best efforts, I could feel moisture filling the corner of my eyes.

Lucy sighed as she rubbed Beatrice's shoulders. "Tell me about it. I was looking forward to some girl cock," I could hear her pouty, bitch expression trickle through her voice, "But instead we paid—how much was it again?—for something barely more substantial than an eraser."

Beatrice looked at me with an odd expression. It appeared to be a cocktail of pity and contempt. She looked back down at my pathetic member, glanced up at my face, shook her head, then looked back down at my member. She looked at it for several more moments.

"Honestly," Lucy continued, "I was hoping for something more fun to fuck. 'Kimmy,' was it? I want you to know that I was looking forward to riding you, but . . . there's just nothing here to ride. Truly pathetic. Do you know whether Frieda is flexible about refunds?"