Undercover Sissy Pt. 03

"Let me guess," the chef said, addressing Agent R with a playful smirk. "She agreed to trade her services for just a meal?"

Agent R, maintaining our cover story, nodded with a wry smile. "You got it," he replied smoothly. "The cheapest one you'll find on that street."

The chef chuckled, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "She doesn't look cheap to me," he remarked, casting a curious glance in my direction. "How was her service?"

"Oh, you know," he said."Nothing to write home about. But she is amazing at giving head."

As we continued our meal, the chef approached us once more, his demeanor more serious this time as he addressed me directly.

"Nicky is your name. I like it," he said, his tone contemplative. "I'm a divorced old man. Do you offer your services to men like me? I'll give you money. Maybe not a lot of it, but certainly more than Luke. What do you say?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling a surge of unease at the blunt nature of his proposition. "Only the usual stuff," I replied tersely, my voice betraying a hint of defiance. "If you ask for more, then I won't be answering your calls anymore."

Before the chef could respond, Agent R interjected with a pointed warning. "Just to let you know, she's trans," he said, his tone firm.

The chef's response was immediate. "I'm not old-fashioned, man," he replied. "Now I wonder why you mention her blowjob skills. You haven't tried other stuff yet, hehe."

Feeling a sense of trust with the chef, I reached into my purse and retrieved a small slip of paper, on which I hastily scrawled down my phone number. With a smile, I slid the paper across the table to him, a silent gesture of goodwill and solidarity.

"Here," I said, my voice soft but resolute. "If you ever need anything, feel free to give me a call."

The chef accepted the slip of paper with a nod of gratitude, tucking it away safely in his pocket. "Thanks, Nicky," he replied, his tone sincere. "I'll keep that in mind."

As we prepared to leave, the chef approached us once more, a hopeful look in his eyes.

"Do you have any more appointments tonight?" he asked, directing his question to me.

I shook my head, puzzled by his inquiry. "No, why?" I replied, my curiosity piqued.

The chef's smile widened as he extended an invitation. "Then why don't you come home with me? I'm almost done here," he suggested.

I hesitated, acutely aware of my current state. "I'm sweaty and smell bad right now," I protested, feeling self-conscious under his gaze.

The chef waved off my concerns with a dismissive gesture. "No problem. When I'm done with you, you'll be even dirtier," he quipped with a grin. "You can take a shower at my place."

I frowned, uncertain about the idea of going home with a virtual stranger. "It'll be too late by then," I reasoned, trying to find a polite way to decline.

But the chef was persistent, his offer unwavering. "You can stay the night if you want," he insisted, his tone warm and inviting.

After a moment's hesitation, I relented, swayed by his kindness and generosity. "Then okay, I'll go," I replied, my decision made.

"Luke, he's not a serial killer or something like that, right?" I asked, unable to shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the back of my mind.

Agent R's response was characteristically blunt. "Do you even care?" he replied, his tone tinged with a hint of exasperation. "I mean, nobody is going to say, 'I'm going to kill you,' right?"

His words gave me pause, forcing me to confront the harsh reality of the situation. In our line of work, trust was a luxury we couldn't afford, and suspicion lurked around every corner. But with the weight of our mission pressing down on us, there was little room for doubt or hesitation.

"You're right," I conceded, swallowing my reservations and steeling myself for whatever lay ahead.

"Nicky, I'll call you sometimes," Agent R said as he left me with the chef.

As we arrived at the chef's home, I couldn't help but notice the clutter and disarray that seemed to permeate every corner of the space. The air was heavy with the scent of stale food and musty odors, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease settle over me as we stepped inside.

The chef led me through the cluttered living room and into the bathroom, apologizing for the state of the place as he fumbled with the faucet. "Sorry about the mess," he muttered, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I haven't had a chance to clean up in a while. But I guess you experienced the worst."

I offered him a reassuring smile, trying to ignore the grimy tiles and the layer of grime that seemed to coat every surface. "No worries," I replied, my voice light despite my growing discomfort. "I'm just grateful for the chance to freshen up."

As the water began to flow, I quickly stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower, the warm spray washing away the dirt and sweat of the day. Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, I couldn't help but revel in the simple pleasure of feeling clean and refreshed after hours spent on the streets.

But as I reached for the soap, my hand brushed against something slimy and unpleasant lurking in the corner of the tub. I recoiled in disgust, my stomach churning at the sight of the grimy residue that clung to my fingers.

Suppressing a shudder, I quickly scrubbed myself clean, doing my best to ignore the lingering sense of revulsion that lingered in the back of my mind. And as I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a threadbare towel, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over me at the thought of leaving this dirty, claustrophobic space behind.

With a grateful nod to the chef, I made my way back into the living room, feeling slightly more human despite the less-than-ideal conditions. And as I settled onto the couch, I couldn't help but wonder what other surprises lay in store for me in this strange and unpredictable world of espionage.

"Feel free to watch TV for a while as I take a shower," the chef offered, motioning towards the aging television set in the corner of the living room.

As the chef disappeared into the bathroom, I flicked on the television, the familiar glow of the screen casting a comforting glow over the dimly lit room. Lost in the flickering images dancing across the screen, I couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from the chaos and danger that lurked outside these walls. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to forget about the mission and the risks that lay ahead.

After a while the chef emerged from the bathroom, and my eyes widened in surprise at the sight before me. Clad in nothing but a towel slung low around his waist, the chef's burly frame filled the doorway, his broad shoulders and thick arms testament to years spent toiling over hot stoves and heavy pots.

Despite his advanced age, there was a rugged masculinity to his appearance, a weathered charm that lent him an air of confidence and self-assurance. His chest was broad and hairy, the thick mat of hair trailing down his abdomen to where his towel barely concealed the bulging expanse of his belly.

I couldn't help but stare, taken aback by the sheer size and presence of the man standing before me. His face was weathered and lined with age, but his eyes sparkled with a mischievous twinkle that hinted at a playful spirit lurking beneath his gruff exterior.

"Sorry about the wait," he said, his voice gruff but good-natured as he dried himself off with a towel. "I take my time in the shower."

"So you want it here?" I asked tentatively, gesturing towards the cramped living room with its threadbare couch and worn-out carpet.

The chef shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'm into bondage, but not any hardcore stuff," he replied with a smirk. "Follow me to the bedroom."

I hesitated, my stomach churning with uncertainty as I followed the chef down the dimly lit hallway. The air was thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as we entered the chef's bedroom.

Much like the rest of the house, the bedroom was a study in disarray, with clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor and dust bunnies lurking in the corners. The bed itself was a sagging mattress, its sheets stained and rumpled from years of use.

I swallowed hard, my nerves jangling with apprehension as I glanced around the room. Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, I knew that the success of our mission depended on my ability to play along with the chef's demands, no matter how uncomfortable they made me feel.

"Now drop your towels and lay down on the bed," the chef commanded, his voice firm and authoritative.

Feeling a knot of apprehension tighten in my stomach, I hesitated for a moment before reluctantly complying with his instructions. With a nervous glance around the room, I shed my towel and lay down on the bed, the worn-out mattress creaking beneath my weight.

The chef approached me with deliberate steps, his movements confident and purposeful. In his hands, he held a length of rope, its rough texture sending a shiver down my spine as he began to bind my wrists and ankles with practiced ease.

As he worked, I couldn't help but feel a sense of vulnerability wash over me, my heart pounding in my chest as I lay there helpless and exposed. Despite my discomfort, I knew that the success of our mission depended on my ability to maintain my cover, no matter how uncomfortable the situation made me feel.

With a final tug of the rope, the chef stepped back to admire his handiwork, a satisfied smirk playing across his lips. "There," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Now you're at my mercy."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry with fear as I lay there bound and helpless before him. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, I knew that I had to stay focused, to keep my wits about me as we navigate the murky waters of this dangerous game.

And as the chef leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear, I braced myself for whatever came next, knowing that the true test of my resolve was yet to come.

His hands inched slowly up my thighs, across my midriff and landed on my breasts. "You have the most perfect pair of tits that I've ever seen. They're neither too big nor too small. They're just right."

He caressed my tits then pinched my nipple lightly between his large finger and thumb. I shivered as his big hands grasped my tits. Then he sucked his finger and dove into my pussy.

I was shocked at the penetration of his huge finger, but also surprised by how good it felt. I didn't want to admit it, but the chef had unanticipated talents. His single finger was doing a damn nice job of fucking me. I'd had sex with guys whose hard cocks weren't that bigger than his fingers. I wondered how big his cock was, and my pussy unexpectedly clenched at the thought.

Chef's face was against mine and his hot breath was on my cheek. He smelled like an old goat and his thick gray hair was everywhere. His finger was doing an amazing job. I was leaking precum like a broken faucet. He scooped them up with his fingers and used it as lube in my sissy pussy.

"I'll deal with your limp clitty later," the chef said.

Rock hard dicks could fill me up, but when it came to motion all they could do was in and out. Regular fingers had dexterity, but they were too damned small. They could flick at the prostate, but they could never satisfy the way a real cock could. But his fingers were the best of both worlds. They satisfied like a cock while hitting exactly the right spot, and cock fingers could move fast.

I laid silently while I blocked his smell from my mind and focused on the pleasure emanating from the finger lodged deep in my pussy. The chef switched from his index finger to his longer middle finger. He curled it up towards my prostate, inducing an involuntary sigh from me. I opened my eyes to see the lusty look on his face. He pushed his middle finger as far in as he could and began to flick the tip of his finger at a very sensitive spot inside me.

I writhed and wormed on the mattress and strained against my bindings as my body involuntarily responded to the tactile maneuvers of his surprisingly well-educated fingers. There was no controlling the saturation of my clitty or the moans and cries that came from my mouth.

"Are you going to cum from just my finger?" Chef said with a chuckle. "I dare you not to cum from my finger."

I pretended to try to pull my pussy off of his finger, but made no effort to stop him from reestablishing his possession of my passion pool.

His finger wiggled and twitched as it pressed deep into my pussy. My hips undulated in sync with its motion and my breathing became shallow. He pinched the nipple of my beautiful breast with the fingers of his off hand, which sent a lightning bolt of ecstasy coursing through my body. I could notice the tension and tingling building throughout my body -- everywhere from my face to my fingers and feet. I was also feeling little spasms not just in my pelvis but all over my body. The muscles in my clitty and anus were contracting.

"Ohhaaaohhhh," I moaned. "Yes yes yessss."

My eyes rolled back as I was totally in his mercy and cum on my shaved crotch. My breathing became short and sweat glistened all over my body. My hips thrust wildly in a desperate attempt to swallow more of his finger.

He pulled out his finger, which left me in shock. He smiled down at the pathetic mess I'd become. My hair was damp with sweat. My pussy was vacant for what seemed like eternity. Then suddenly his two fingers barged its way into my ass.

He reached down to his cock to see if he was hard enough. It was more than hard. It was ready to violate my sissy pussy. I couldn't wait to see and adore his huge cock with my mouth. He dropped his towel and gave his massive cock a couple of quick strokes. I couldn't believe what I saw. He grabbed my hair in his hand and pulled my head closer to his cock. I stuck out my tongue and invited his cock in.

I gagged as the cock's tip pressed at the back of my throat, but I was determined to suppress my reflex and swallow it. Once again he drove his massive cock down my throat. I gagged a little as the tip slid past the back of my mouth, then I felt my nose press into the curly gray hairs at the base of his cock. The smell was pungent and overwhelming.

The next time I stopped for a breath he pressed his fingers into my tight little ass. My back arched and my arms and legs pulled at their bindings as the fingers slowly made their presence felt. Once firmly inside me, they began to transit back and forth while his cock slid down my throat for a third time.

"This position won't work," Chef said while untying me. "On your back, and hang your head off of the edge. I'm gonna fuck your throat pussy first."

"Ok," I replied.

As I spun around and positioned myself so that my head was hanging off the edge of the bed. He walked over to me and guided his cock to my mouth. As soon as it was in, he grabbed my wrists and pinned them down alongside my hips making it impossible for me to resist what he was going to do to me. Then, with his prey sufficiently subdued, he began to push his cock down my throat.

At first he wasn't pushing in too far, just a couple of inches, then a couple more. He was working his cock at a steady pace in and out, and I wasn't having any trouble taking him in or breathing. I felt as though he was actually being fairly gentle with me, but then, he started pushing deeper.

Chef was pushing his cock so far down my throat that his big hairy balls were pressing against my nose and eyes. I had no choice but to smell his sweaty balls. He smelled like a man who worked all day and had yet to shower. My body tensed up as I tried to pull back off of his cock and balls, but all I could do was kick my legs. I began to gag and choke, and I could tell that he loved it because all he did was laugh at my helplessness. Finally, as I retched and kicked violently, he released me, pulling his cock out of my mouth. A torrent of spit and mucus spilled out all over my face, soaking my hair.

"Hahaha, there you go, bitch! I like it sloppy!" Then, he shoved his cock back down my throat and skull-fucked me vigorously. His sweet behavior changed so soon. He must have liked it rough. He would shove his prick balls deep down my throat and hold it in place just long enough for me to start squirming and kicking. Noticing my limp clitty soaking wet he said, "Hahaha, I knew you also love it rough!"

It was true. As I lay there getting helplessly throat fucked by this man, I thought about how much I did love this. I loved being treated roughly, being degraded, and used like a fuck toy. I loved being pushed to my limits and then slightly over. Maybe it was a combination of low self-esteem and daddy issues, but I really like to be completely used and abused by dominant men.

At this point my face was completely covered in the spit retching from my throat. Butch's cock and balls were also covered in it and every time he smashed his balls into my nose and pulled back, a long stream of saliva would keep us connected. That was the case when he finally pulled all the way out, and with his hand on the back of my head lifting it up slightly, he spit right in my face several times.

"Hah! I told you that cum and sweat was nothing compared to how dirty you'll become when I'm done with you!" After his proclamation, chef rammed his cock back down my throat, and with his hands now on the back of my head, furiously skull fucked me. I choked and spewed all over him and myself but he kept going.

With his cock thoroughly coated in my throat lube, he rolled me onto my stomach and quickly straddled my ass. Before I even realized what was happening, he was balls deep in my sissy pussy. I let out a pathetic little whimper as he grunted like a wild boar, sawing away at my hole. His big fat belly was resting over waist. He was smashing away at my body so vigorously that I was bouncing up from the mattress and meeting his thrusts. His swollen pendulous balls were slapping against my taint.

"Oh fuck yeah! That ass is amazing!" Chef groaned. "You like that don't you; you fucking worthless fucking cheap whore?"

"Yes! Ungh... Fuck me... Ungh... fuck me... Ungh... Use me... Unggggh!" I responded between his powerful thrusts.

"That's right you bitch," he continued to slam his cock inside me. I felt the full weight of his big hairy body on top of me as he laid on top of me now. He snaked an arm under mine and wrapped his calloused hand around my throat. He tightened his grip, constricting my airway. I grabbed at his hand, but instead of loosening his grip, he only fucked me harder and deeper, stabbing his cock deeper inside me as he grunted.

He shoved his cock balls deep inside me a couple more times, then he jumped off of me, and came to where my head was by the foot of the bed. He yanked my head back, and with his cock inches from my already messy face, he unleashed torrent after torrent of cum, spraying his load all over me.

When he was finally done shooting he said, "Now clean my cock,"

I didn't hesitate, raising myself up on my elbows, I took him into my mouth and started sucking. He tasted of cum, sweat, and my own ass. I sucked on his cock head like a straw, gobbling up the remainder of his ejaculate.

After what felt like an eternity, the chef finally seemed satisfied with the job I had done.

"You can stay the night here," he said, his voice dripping with casual indifference. "There's a couch in the living room. It's not much, but it'll do."

I nodded silently, too exhausted and relieved to argue. Despite the less-than-ideal conditions of the couch, I knew that I had no other choice. It was late, and the prospect of navigating the unfamiliar streets in the dead of night held little appeal.