Chapter 8: Dolled Up and Dripping, The Bimbo of Apartments Complex
The taste of the Imam’s spend was still a phantom sting on his tongue as Rifki stood before the full-length mirror, his reflection a foreign sculpture of glossy latex and strained flesh. The clear platform heels, a brutal six inches, arched his feet into a permanent, trembling point, the pressure making his ankles weep. “Walk,” Abang’s voice came from a plush chaise, casual as commenting on the weather. Each step was a precarious teeter, the room tilting, his balance wholly surrendered to the punishing shoes. The diamond-encrusted cage was a cold, vice-like grip on his swollen purple cockhead, each facet catching the light whenever his thighs, sheathed in sheer stockings, parted with a whisper.
He picked up the lipstick tube, his fingers – now tipped with long, pearlescent nails – fumbling slightly as he applied the glossy pink over his collagen-plumped lips, the sensation oddly numb and full. The remote-controlled vibrators embedded in his falsies hummed to a medium pulse, making the augmented breasts jiggle with a slow, obscene rhythm in the mirror. “Good,” Abang murmured, and the vibration intensified sharply, forcing a ragged moan past Rifki’s freshly painted mouth. His pout in the mirror became a genuine gasp, eyes fluttering. “Now show me how you thank your Ustaz.”
Rifki’s gaze dropped from his mirrored eyes to the plush white carpet. He knelt, the movement awkward in the heels, his back arching deeply. Reaching behind himself with practiced ease, he found the clasp of the tight lace thong and peeled it aside, exposing his hole, still loose and glistening from the closet. He bent forward, presenting himself, his cheek pressed to the carpet, the latex of his hijab stretching. Abang’s footsteps were silent, but his shadow fell over Rifki first, then the thick, sudden pressure of his cockhead, not asking, just pushing, stretching that tender channel wide again with a brutal, single thrust. Rifki screamed into the pile of the rug, his body speared, as Abang fucked him with a steady, deep piston stroke, each drive bottoming out, making the cage bite into his pelvis. “You’re a fountain,” Abang grunted, his hands vise-like on Rifki’s hips, pace quickening into a furious slap of skin. “A leaking, holy fountain.” Rifki came then, untouched, a pathetic dribble from his cage, his vision dissolving into white static as Abang emptied himself deep inside with a final, grinding push.
Abang withdrew, leaving Rifki collapsed and dripping onto the carpet. “Clean up,” Abang said, lighting a cigarette. “You have an appointment downstairs.” The shower corridors were sleek, steam-haunted concrete, the air thick with chlorine and male sweat. Rifki pushed through the glass door, the wet jilbab sheer and clinging to every curve of his Abang-tailored frame, the translucent hijab doing little to hide his painted face.
Three sets of eyes locked onto him from under the steaming jets—young, muscular, their cocks already half-hard from the swim. “Well, hello there,” one grinned, his hand drifting to his shaft. Rifki didn’t speak; he let his hips sway through the mist, a strut learned in the penthouse, until he was under the central spray. With a sigh that was all theater, he sank to his slick knees on the tile, the hot water cascading over his head.
His left hand found a thick, uncut cock, guiding it to his swollen lips while his right mouth already opened for another, salivating in anticipation. He took them both deep, his throat working around the first as his tongue swirled under the second’s frenulum, a filthy, practiced rhythm that made the men groan. “Fuck, her mouth’s amazing,” one choked out, grabbing Rifki’s hijab to piston deeper. At the same time, Rifki rose slightly on his trembling heels, reaching back to guide the third man’s slick cockhead into his used, still-loose hole from Abang and the Imam, sinking down onto its length with a guttural, muffled scream around his mouthfuls.
The slap of their hips against his flesh was a rapid, wet percussion under the shower’s drumming. Rifki rode one cock while his throat was brutally fucked by two others, his body a nexus of their grunting thrusts, his cage a throbbing, leaking irrelevance.
He stumbled out into the sterile hallway later, every muscle singing with abuse, the taste of chlorine and stranger’s cum a film in his mouth. The elevator doors hissed shut, sealing him in chrome silence, his reflection a smeared ghost of pink lipstick and hollow eyes. The numbers climbed, but the car jerked to a halt on the fourteenth floor, the doors opening to a lanky boy in a university hoodie, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Going up?” Rifki’s voice was a husk, sanded raw from use. The boy, maybe nineteen, flushed and stammered, his eyes wide as they dragged over Rifki’s wet, clinging robes and the obvious outline of the cage. The doors closed. Rifki let the silence press, then leaned against the cold wall, one hand hiking the jilbab to reveal a slick, stockinged thigh. “Lost?”
“I… the exit sign was out on twelve,” the freshman mumbled, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Rifki’s fingers, trailing the inside of his own thigh, found the soaked gusset of his thong. He hooked a finger, pulling the fabric aside with a damp sound, exposing his shaved, used pussy to the elevator’s surveillance-blind corner. The boy’s breath hitched, a sharp, desperate sound. “You can’t…” “But you want to,” Rifki whispered, closing the distance, his collagen-swollen lips brushing the boy’s ear. “Don’t you?”
A panicked, hungry noise escaped the boy’s throat as he shoved Rifki through the opening emergency exit door, into the concrete stairwell stinking of dust and piss. His mouth was clumsy, desperate, biting at Rifki’s inflated lips as his hands clawed the wet jilbab up, ripping the fragile latex hijab away. “Please,” the boy begged, fumbling with his jeans, his cock springing free, hard and hot against Rifki’s trembling stomach. Rifki turned, bending over the cold metal railing, presenting his still-gaping hole from the showers. “Fuck your stress away, baby,” he moaned, reaching back to guide him. The boy didn’t need encouragement; he drove in with a single, tearing thrust, no spit, no gentleness, just raw, frantic need.
His hips snapped forward, pounding Rifki’s body against the railing, each slam jolting a choked gasp into the stagnant air. “You’re so fucking tight,” the boy grunted, his fingers digging bruises into Rifki’s hips, his pace a relentless, unskilled hammering. Rifki’s caged dick dribbled pathetically against the concrete below, his vision blurring as the boy’s tempo faltered, his groan sharp and final, flooding Rifki’s guts with yet another stranger’s heat. He slumped forward, spent, his forehead against Rifki’s back. Silence returned, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the building. Rifki didn’t move, feeling the warm trickle escape him, a monument to his perfect, fucking usefulness.
Rifki didn’t move, feeling the warm trickle escape him, a monument to his perfect, fucking usefulness. The boy zipped up and fled, his footsteps echoing like gunshots in the hollow stairwell. Rifki pushed himself upright, a slow agony of sore muscle and stretched tissue, each step in the clear heels a fresh torment as he descended toward the lobby.
The main doors of Green Pramuka Apartments hissed shut behind him, the air-conditioned marble foyer a shock against his damp, exposed skin. Old Widow Soeprapti, waiting for the elevator with her pug, let out a theatrical, disgusted sigh, her eyes raking over his torn hijab and the unmistakable sticky sheen on his inner thighs. “Disgraceful,” she muttered to her dog, loud enough to carve into the sterile quiet. Rifki just offered a vacant, glossy-lipped smile, a bimbo’s blank shield, and pressed the call button.
The elevator arrived, empty. As the doors closed, a calloused hand shot in to stop them. It was Pak Soleh, the building’s perpetually sweating handyman, his uniform stained with grease. He stepped inside, the small space immediately filling with the smell of engine oil and stale sweat. His eyes, bloodshot and hungry, didn’t meet Rifki’s; they fixed on the diamond cage barely concealed by the sheer, ruined fabric. “Heard about you,” he grunted, the doors sealing them in. “The new shemale bitch on fourteen.”
Rifki leaned against the mirrored wall, exhausted, his body a used canvas. “What of it?” The handyman was on him before the elevator even climbed, his mouth rough and demanding on Rifki’s collagen-swollen lips, one filthy hand groping a vibrating falsie through the wet jilbab. “Fifty thousand rupiah,” Soleh panted, fumbling with his belt. “For a quick bend-over in the service closet.” Rifki’s laugh was a hollow thing. “That’s less than the water bill, Pak.”
But he was already turning, bending, his sore hands braced against the cold elevator wall as Soleh spat once, messily, and shoved his thick, stubby cock inside him with a brutal, utilitarian thrust. Rifki gasped, his overfilled channel protesting this fresh, crude invasion. Soleh fucked him with a rapid, grinding rhythm, his pot belly slapping against Rifki’s bruised hips, his breath a sour grunt in Rifki’s ear. “Tight little sin-hole,” he slurred, pounding faster, his fingers digging into the lace at Rifki’s waist. “Gonna pump this Muslimah sissy full.”
Rifki stared at his own reflection in the elevator door—smudged makeup, vacant eyes, a body being jackhammered by a stranger—and watched as his reputation cemented itself into the very walls. Soleh came with a choked roar, his hips stuttering, flooding Rifki’s raw insides with another cheap, anonymous load. He pulled out, tucked himself away, and dropped two crumpled notes on the floor just as the doors opened to his maintenance floor. “See you around, hooker,” he muttered, stepping out without a backward glance.
The elevator continued its climb, leaving Rifki alone, dripping, finally collapsing in a shuddering heap of latex and spend on the polished floor. He didn’t get up.