Tiffany , mature M2F trans gurl is snatched off the streets of London by wealthy , powerful Arab Dominants and led down the path of becoming the ultimate sex slave and human toilet.
Tiffany is a REAL person . She is a mature tgirl , ( a transvestite/crossdresser) She is based in London UK , but could genuinely be relocated for chained slavery to an Alpha male, or group of males. .
You can always find many free pictures and videos of her , simply by internet searching “tiffanyobeys”.
Part 1
"Pass the ketchup, would you?" Tiffany nudged her friend Marcus across the sticky diner booth. Outside, rain streaked the neon sign. It read 'Joe's Grill' in flickering pink letters.
Marcus slid the bottle over, eyeing her new floral dress. "That's bold for Tuesday lunch. Your neighbours see you leave like that?" Tiffany shrugged, stirring her coffee. The porcelain clinked softly against the spoon. She'd stopped caring what Sunset Street thought years ago. The dress felt like armour against their whispers.
A trucker at the counter laughed too loud, rattling the salt shakers. Tiffany didn't notice the van idling across the street, engine off but exhaust still curling into the damp air. Its tinted windows reflected the downpour like black mirrors.
She paid the check, humming as she pushed through the diner door. The bell jingled behind her. Cold rain needled her face as she hurried toward her car keys. Her heels clicked on wet pavement—then stopped. A shadow detached itself from the alley wall. "Excuse me, ma'am?" a voice said, too calm. "Your taillight's smashed."
Tiffany turned. Three men closed in, smelling of stale cigarettes and motor oil. Before she could say anything, a rough hand clamped over her mouth. Her handbag hit the ground, lipstick rolling into a gutter. They moved fast, bundling her into the van. The door slammed. Tires screeched away from the curb.
Inside, the air tasted like diesel and fear. Duct tape tore across her lips. Tiffany kicked, her heel snapping off against metal flooring. Fingers dug into her arms as they pinned her down. One man rifled through her handbag. "Wallet says Richard Thompson," he grunted. Laughter erupted—harsh, jagged sounds that scraped her ears.
"Richard won't need this where he's going," another voice sneered. The van hit a pothole, bouncing Tiffany's head against the wall. Stars burst behind her eyelids. Darkness swallowed the sound of her own heartbeat.
Hours bled together. The tape chafed her lips raw. When they finally stopped, rough hands hauled her out into blinding desert sun. Heat slammed into her like a physical blow, sucking the moisture from her skin. Sand gritted under her broken heel as they dragged her toward a squat concrete building. A rusty sign creaked in the wind: "Al-Mawt Shipping." Her stomach turned to ice.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed over rows of steel cages. The air stank of sweat and bleach. A man with scarred knuckles unlocked a cage door, shoving her in. "Welcome to your new life, habibi," he spat. The lock clicked shut with finality. Tiffany pressed her face against cold bars, watching shadows move in the corridor. Whispers echoed—other voices, other cages. A woman sobbed softly three cells down.
The scarred man returned at dusk with two others. They threw a bundle of cheap, sheer fabric, which was sequined, into her cage. "Wear this. Now." Tiffany's fingers trembled as she unfolded the flimsy red lingerie. The sequins scratched her palms. Outside, a generator sputtered to life, casting long, dancing shadows on the wall. Somewhere, a door slammed. Footsteps approached her cage again. Heavy. Deliberate. Tiffany backed into the corner, clutching the red fabric like a shield. The footsteps stopped. Keys jingled.
A new man stood there—tall, with cold eyes that scanned her from broken heel to smudged mascara. He wore a crisp white *thobe* that seemed to glow in the dimness. "Stand," he commanded in accented English. When she hesitated, he unlocked the cage himself. His cologne was sharp, medicinal. Up close, Tiffany saw the thin scar tracing his jawline. He gripped her chin, forcing her face left, then right. His thumb brushed the raw skin where the duct tape had been. She flinched. "You will learn obedience," he said softly. "Or you will learn pain. Which lesson comes first is your choice." Behind him, the scarred guard smirked.
He released her abruptly. "Clean yourself. You stink of fear." A bucket of tepid water and a ragged cloth were shoved into the cage. The lock clicked again. Tiffany stared at the water. Her reflection wavered—smudged lipstick, tangled hair, the floral dress now torn at the shoulder. She dipped the cloth, wincing as the rough fabric met her abraded wrists. The water turned grey instantly. As she scrubbed, she caught fragmented Arabic from the corridor: "...new shipment...Dubai clients pay extra for the that transvestite one...*" The red lingerie lay beside her like a wound.
Later, harsh fluorescent lights flickered on overhead. Tiffany jumped. The tall man returned, flanked by guards. He carried a small leather case. Without a word, he opened it on the floor outside her cage. Inside gleamed an array of makeup—thick foundations, glittery eyeshadows, a tube of crimson lipstick. "Make yourself beautiful," he ordered. His gaze lingered on her trembling hands. Rashid, the scarred guard, cracked his knuckles. Tiffany reached for the foundation. The smell—chemical and cloying—made her throat tighten. She dabbed it on, her hands shaking so badly the sponge smeared streaks down her neck. The tall man watched, silent. When she finished, he tilted his head. "Better," he murmured. "But not yet worthy." He snapped the case shut. "Tomorrow, you begin training. Sleep well, The words felt like a slap. As he walked away, Rashid lingered, his eyes tracing the outline of the red lingerie through the bars. Tiffany didn't move until his footsteps faded into the hum of the generator. The foundation itched. She didn't scratch it.
The night deepened. Whispers floated from other cages—whimpers, prayers, a low chant in a language Tiffany didn’t recognize. She curled up on the thin mattress, the sequins of the lingerie digging into her skin. Outside, desert wind howled against the concrete walls, a mournful sound that seeped into her bones. She thought of Marcus. Had he reported her missing? Or had he just assumed Richard Thompson finally skipped town? The floral dress lay crumpled in the corner, a splash of colour in the gray cage. She reached for it, pressing the torn fabric to her face. It still smelled faintly of coffee and rain. A wave of nausea hit her. She choked it down, swallowing the sour taste of panic. Footsteps echoed again. Not Rashid’s heavy tread. Lighter. Closer. A shadow paused outside her cage. Tiffany froze.
A small, folded square of paper slid under the bars. Tiffany stared at it. Then, quick as a snake, a hand darted back into the darkness of the corridor. She scrambled forward, snatching the paper. Unfolding it revealed a single, smudged sentence in English: *"They don’t watch the cameras at shift change. 3 AM."* Below the words, a crude drawing of a key. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. She crumpled the note, hiding it under the mattress. Who delivered this ? The silence now felt charged, electric. Tiffany lay back, staring at the ceiling. The generator’s drone was a countdown. 3 AM. She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow. The foundation felt like a mask. She left it on.
Dawn arrived with a brutal orange glare through the high, barred windows. Tiffany was already awake, the cheap red fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin. The tall man returned, immaculate in his white thobe. Behind him stood a woman—older, with sharp eyes and a severe black abaya. Her gaze swept over Tiffany, cold and assessing. "This is Nadira," the tall man said. "She will teach you to move. To speak. To please." Nadira stepped forward, unlocking the cage. Her fingers, when they gripped Tiffany’s arm, were surprisingly strong. "Stand straight," Nadira commanded, her voice like gravel. "Shoulders back. Chin up. You are not a frightened rabbit. You are water. Smooth. Flowing." She traced a bony finger along Tiffany’s tense spine. "They paid much for you. Do not make them regret it." Nadira’s eyes flickered to the crumpled floral dress in the corner, then back to Tiffany’s face. "Forget what you were. Here, you are only what men desire." Tiffany met her gaze. The foundation cracked as she clenched her jaw. Nadira smiled faintly. "Good. Fire is also useful. For now, we start with water." She produced a single, perfect white rose from within her abaya. "Hold this. Gently. As if it is the only beautiful thing left in the world." Tiffany took it. The thorns pricked her thumb. A bead of blood welled, bright red against her skin. Nadira watched it fall. "Pain is also a lesson," she said softly. "Remember it."
The training began. Nadira led her to a mirrored room, its walls reflecting Tiffany’s smudged makeup and the garish lingerie. "Walk," Nadira ordered. Tiffany took a step, her broken heel catching on the concrete. Nadira’s cane snapped out, striking her calf. "Again. Slower. Hips swaying, not jerking like a broken puppet." Hours blurred. Walk. Turn. Sit. Kneel. Each movement dissected, corrected. Nadira circled her like a hawk, the cane a constant threat. "Your eyes are dead," she hissed during a break, forcing a glass of lukewarm water into Tiffany’s hands. "Men do not pay for corpses. They pay for dreams. You must become the dream." She tilted Tiffany’s chin towards the mirror. "See? The fear is still there. Swallow it. Bury it deep. Let only the surface shine." Tiffany stared at her reflection—the heavy foundation, the smeared lipstick, the desperate glint in her eyes. Nadira leaned close, her breath smelling of mint and something bitter. "The key," she whispered, so low Tiffany almost missed it. "It is for the eastern service door. Rusted. But it opens." Then she straightened, her voice sharp again. "Now. Smile. Not with your teeth. With your eyes. Make me believe you want to be here." Tiffany forced her lips upward. Nadira nodded. "Adequate. We continue."
The desert sun blazed directly overhead when Rashid appeared at the mirrored room’s door. He leered, his scarred knuckles tapping the frame. "Enough lessons, Nadira. The boss wants to see the merchandise." Nadira’s expression didn’t change, but her knuckles whitened on the cane. "She is not ready." Rashid chuckled. "He doesn’t care about ready. He cares about seeing if she screams pretty." He stepped inside, his bulk blocking the light. Tiffany froze, the practiced smile vanishing. Rashid reached out, calloused fingers brushing her bare shoulder. She flinched violently. "See?" Rashid grinned. "Still jumpy." Nadira moved swiftly, placing herself between them. "She learns control. Give her time." Rashid’s smile turned ugly. "Time’s a luxury, hajja. The client arrives tonight." His eyes raked over Tiffany. "Make sure she shines. Or I’ll help her… practice." He lingered a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the red sequins, before turning away. Nadira waited until his footsteps faded. Her shoulders slumped, just for an instant. When she turned back to Tiffany, her eyes held a flicker of something new—urgency. "Tonight," she breathed. "The key. The eastern door. At shift change. Three AM. Be ready." She pressed a small, cold object into Tiffany’s palm—a crude, twisted piece of metal. "Hide it. And pray the cameras truly blink." Tiffany closed her fingers around the key. Nadira’s hand tightened on her wrist. "Now," she said, her voice regaining its steel. "Let us make you shine. For Rashid. For the client. For the cameras. But mostly… for the door."
They returned to the cage. Nadira worked with furious speed, replacing the smudged foundation, darkening Tiffany’s eyes until they looked inviting and enormous, painting her lips a deep, dangerous crimson. She braided strands of Tiffany’s hair with gold thread. "Remember," Nadira murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant generator. "Water and fire. Flow around them. Burn them later." She stepped back, appraising her work. Tiffany stared at her reflection in a small, cracked hand mirror Nadira produced. The face looking back was a stranger—exotic, hollow-eyed, a painted doll. Fear churned beneath the mask, but the key dug into her palm, a sharp, grounding pain. Nadira nodded once. "Good enough to buy time." She gathered her things. "When they come… flow. Do not fight. Not yet." Her eyes met Tiffany’s, fierce and unreadable. "Survive until three." Then she was gone, the cage door clanging shut. Tiffany sank onto the thin mattress, the sequins biting her skin. She slipped the key into the narrow gap between the mattress and the cage wall. Outside, the desert light began to soften, staining the concrete walls blood-orange. The generator’s drone seemed louder. Somewhere, a woman began to sob again—a raw, hopeless sound. Tiffany closed her eyes, breathing slowly, forcing her trembling hands to still. She pictured the eastern door. Rusted. But it opened. She pictured the endless sand beyond. Three AM. The countdown had begun.
The footsteps came just as dusk bled into night. Rashid first, his bulk filling the corridor, smelling of sweat and cheap cologne. Behind him, the tall man in his pristine white thobe, his expression impassive. And a third man—new. Fat, sweating in an expensive suit that strained at the buttons, his eyes small and greedy behind thick glasses. The client. Rashid unlocked the cage with a flourish. "Your entertainment, *sayyid*," he announced, gesturing crudely at Tiffany. The client’s gaze crawled over her, lingering on the sheer fabric, the painted face. He licked his lips. Tiffany stood, forcing her shoulders back, her chin up, letting her hips sway slightly as Nadira had taught. *Water*, she thought. *Flow*. The tall man watched her, a flicker of cold approval in his eyes. "She learns quickly," he remarked. The client stepped closer, his breath hot and sour. "Turn," he commanded. Tiffany obeyed, moving slowly, feeling his eyes like grubby fingers on her skin. Rashid chuckled. "See? Like a little doll." The client reached out, pudgy fingers brushing the gold thread in her hair. Tiffany didn’t flinch. She met his gaze, letting a ghost of Nadira’s practiced smile touch her lips. Inside, she was screaming. But the surface was smooth. Flowing. The key pressed against her thigh from its hiding place. *Three AM*. She held the gaze, her eyes reflecting the fluorescent light, empty and shining. The client grinned. "She’ll do.
Later, alone in the cage’s suffocating darkness, Tiffany counted the seconds by the generator’s pulse. Whispers had ceased. Only the wind’s mournful howl and the distant sob from three cells down remained. Rashid had lingered after locking her in, his scarred knuckles tracing the bars. "Sweet dreams, habibi," he’d leered. Tiffany had stared past him, her painted face a mask. Now, she moved silently. The crude metal key, cold and sharp, slid easily from its crevice. She clutched it, feeling its jagged edges bite her palm. The note’s words burned in her mind: *They don’t watch the cameras at shift change. 3 AM.* Outside her cage, the corridor lay bathed in sickly yellow light from a single bulb. Shadows stretched long and distorted. Tiffany pressed her face to the bars. Nothing moved. The guard station down the hall was empty—shift change. Her breath hitched. *Now*. She slid the key toward the lock, her hand trembling violently. The metal scraped against the mechanism. A little too loud. She froze, heart hammering against her ribs. Silence. No footsteps. No shouts. She tried again, twisting the key with desperate precision. A click. Soft, definitive. The cage door swung open with a faint groan. Tiffany stepped into the corridor, the concrete cold beneath her bare feet. The eastern door lay at the end, past rows of silent cages. She saw shapes huddled inside—other shadows, other lives. The key felt heavy in her hand. The generator’s drone deepened. Three AM. She took a breath and started moving, a splash of crimson lingerie swallowed by the corridor’s gloom. The rusted eastern door waited, its handle gleaming faintly under the dim bulb. Freedom tasted like dust and diesel.
Tiffany exhaled, shaky. She pushed forward. The eastern door loomed—heavy, iron, streaked with corrosion. She jammed the key into its lock. It resisted. She twisted harder, her sweat-slicked fingers slipping. A grinding screech tore through the quiet. The door gave, swinging outward with a groan that sounded like a scream. Desert air, cold and sharp, rushed in. Freedom. Tiffany stepped into the night. Stars blazed overhead, indifferent. The compound walls rose high, topped with coiled wire. Beyond, endless dunes shimmered under the moon. She ran, bare feet sinking into cold sand. Behind her, a shout erupted. Then another. Floodlights snapped on, slicing the darkness. Footsteps pounded the earth. Close. Too close. Tiffany plunged into the dunes, the red fabric a beacon against the pale sand. The desert swallowed her, but the shouts followed, hungry and relentless.
Tiffany scrambled up a dune, gasping, the sheer fabric tearing on thorny scrub. At the crest, she froze. Headlights sliced the desert floor below—two jeeps roaring from the compound. Rashid’s voice, thick with fury: "...find that bitch...alive or in pieces..." Boots crunched on gravel. Flashlight beams stabbed between the rocks. Tiffany squeezed into a narrow crevice, heart hammering against stone. A guard grunted, "*Nothing here.*" Rashid spat. "*Keep looking. She can’t have gone far.*" Their footsteps retreated. The jeep engine revved, fading into the distance. Tiffany stayed pressed in the crevice until silence returned, broken only by the wind’s mournful wail. Ahead lay only the vast, pitiless desert. She rose, trembling. The rocks offered no path, only deeper shadows. She chose one and stumbled into the dark, the taste of sand sharp on her tongue.
Hours blurred into a haze of shimmering heat and shifting dunes. She crested a rise and froze. Below, nestled beside a dry wadi, stood a cluster of low mud-brick buildings. Hope flared, reckless and desperate. She scrambled down the slope, ignoring the stones cutting her soles. As she neared the nearest building, a door creaked open. A woman emerged, draped in a faded blue abaya. She took one look at Tiffany—the torn red lingerie peeking, the smeared makeup, the bleeding feet—and gasped, clutching her veil. She called out sharply. Two men appeared, their expressions hardening as they saw Tiffany. One spat into the dust. The woman gestured frantically, shooing Tiffany away like a diseased animal. "Go!" she hissed in broken English. "Bad men come! Go!" She pointed back toward the endless dunes, her eyes wide with fear. Tiffany stumbled backward, the brief flicker of hope extinguished. The door slammed shut. The settlement turned its back. She turned east again, the sun a hammer on her skull. The dunes offered no mercy, only the mocking shimmer of mirages. She walked until her legs buckled, collapsing into the scant shade of a skeletal acacia tree. The blanket felt like lead. She closed her eyes, the world spinning.
The crunch of boots on gravel jolted her awake. Twilight painted the desert violet. Three figures stood silhouetted on the dune above her—Rashid’s unmistakable bulk, flanked by two guards. They hadn’t gone west. They’d circled back. Rashid grinned, a predator savouring the kill. "Told you she’d crawl,” he chuckled. Tiffany scrambled backward, sand filling her mouth. The guards descended, swift and brutal. Hands clamped on her arms, hauling her upright. Rashid stalked forward, his scarred knuckles tracing the sequins still clinging to her hip. "Pretty little runner," he mocked. Iron shackles, cold and heavy, snapped shut around her ankles, biting into her flesh. A shorter chain linked them, hobbling her gait. "*Try running now,*" Rashid sneered. He shoved her forward. She stumbled, the shackles clanking. They dragged her toward a waiting jeep parked just beyond the dune. Rashid shoved her face-down onto the dusty rear seat. The engine roared to life. Before they even moved, Rashid’s hand gripped her braided hair, yanking her head back. "*Payment for the chase,*" he growled. He didn’t bother removing the ruined lingerie. He simply ripped the flimsy fabric aside. The violation was swift, brutal, and utterly silent from Tiffany. She bit her lip until blood filled her mouth, tasting copper and sand, staring blankly at the jeep floor as Rashid grunted above her and penetrated her arse hole with his big Arab cock. When he finished, her arse filled with Arab cum, he shoved her off the seat onto the floorboards. One guard laughed. The other took his turn, his hands rough, his breathing hot on her neck as he fucked her deep and hard, stretching her arse hole. The jeep bounced over the dunes as they used her, the shackles clanking with every jolt. Tiffany closed her eyes, retreating behind the painted mask Nadira had crafted. Water. Flow.
The compound gates loomed like the jaws of hell. Rashid hauled Tiffany out by her hair, dumping her onto the concrete courtyard. The tall man waited, his white thobe, immaculate. His cold eyes scanned her bleeding feet, the shackles, the fresh bruises blooming on her thighs. "*Damaged goods,*" he stated flatly. Rashid shrugged. "*But still breathing. Mostly.*" The tall man’s gaze lingered on Tiffany’s vacant stare. "*Unsalable,*" he pronounced. "*She belongs to Al-Mawt now. Put her in the pit.*" Rashid grinned, hauling Tiffany upright. He dragged her, stumbling in her chains, not toward the cages, but deeper into the compound’s bowels. They descended a narrow stone staircase into suffocating darkness. The air reeked of mildew and stale sweat. At the bottom, Rashid shoved her into a small, windowless cell. Dank straw covered the floor. A single bucket stood in the corner. He unhooked a heavy iron ring bolted to the wall. "*Hands,*" he ordered. Tiffany numbly held out her wrists. Thick manacles snapped shut, linked by a short chain to the wall ring. Her movement was reduced to shuffling steps within a three-foot radius. Rashid stepped back, admiring his handiwork. "*Home sweet home,*" he leered. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "*You’re ours now. Every guard. Every shift. Whenever we want.*" He traced a finger down her torn lingerie. "*Get used to the taste of Arab cum*" he whispered. "*You’ll be swallowing it often.*" He slammed the heavy iron door. Darkness enveloped her. The only sounds were her own ragged breathing and the heavy clank of the chains when she shifted.
The door groaned open hours later. Not Rashid. A younger guard Tiffany didn’t recognize, his eyes wide with nervous excitement in the flickering torchlight he carried. He set the torch in a bracket outside the door. He stared at her shackled form, the red sequins catching the dim light. He licked his lips. Without a word, he fumbled with his belt buckle. Tiffany pressed herself against the cold stone wall, the chains pulling taut. He didn’t approach slowly. He lunged. His hands were clumsy, sweaty. He ripped at the remaining shreds of fabric. Tiffany turned her face away, pressing her forehead against the rough stone. She focused on the grit beneath her cheek. Water. Flow. He kicks Tiffanys legs open , exposing her stretched arse hole. His grunts filled the tiny cell, his weight pinning her against the wall, the manacles digging into her wrists as he fucked her hard , deep and fast. It was quick. He stumbled back, adjusting his clothes, avoiding her eyes. He grabbed the torch and fled, leaving her in utter darkness again. The smell of him lingered—fear and cheap tobacco., his cum oozed out of her arse hole. Tiffany slid down the wall into the filthy straw. The chains rattled. She touched her bruised thighs. She curled tighter, a splash of crimson in the consuming dark.
The next day brought noise—boots on stone, loud voices echoing down the stairwell. Rashid appeared, grinning broadly, flanked by a sea of unfamiliar faces. Twenty men. New recruits. Their uniforms crisp, their eyes scanning the pit corridor with a mixture of apprehension and morbid curiosity. Rashid gestured grandly toward Tiffany’s cell door. "*Welcome gift,*" he announced. "*Broken in, but still warm. Get yourselves acquainted." He unlocked the door. The first man hesitated. Rashid shoved him inside. "*Don’t be shy! She doesn’t bite… much.*" The hesitation vanished. They came in shifts. Two, sometimes three at a time. Hands everywhere. Grunts, laughter, the clank of chains as they shoved her against the wall, bent her over the bucket, pushed her face into the damp straw. Cocks in her mouth and her arse , one after another. The stench of sweat and lust choked the air and the spunk of dozens of Arabs , leaking from her stretched holes. Tiffany retreated deep inside the painted doll Nadira had made. She became water. Smooth. Flowing. Around them. Through them. She didn’t fight. She didn’t scream. She let them take. Each violation was a stone in the wall she built around her core. The hours bled into a nightmare tapestry of thrusting cocks and grasping hands. Her body became a numb, aching vessel. When the last recruit staggered out, reeking of her, Rashid slammed the door shut. Silence crashed back, thick and heavy. Tiffany lay curled in the straw, trembling uncontrollably, the chains cold against her raw skin. The stench of semen and sweat clung to her.
Tiffany was brought some stale bread to eat and clean water to drink and bathe.
The following morning, Rashid returned alone. He kicked the bucket near her feet. It sloshed. Tiffany flinched. He grinned, a cruel twist of his scarred lips. "*New job, *habibi*," he announced, his voice echoing in the dank cell. "*The compound’s busy. Latrines are overflowing. You’re the solution.*" He nudged the bucket closer with his boot. "*Starting now. You’re our toilet. Drink the piss. Eat the shit. Every guard. Every shift.*" He leaned down, his breath hot and foul. "*Six men lined up already. Thirsty work, guarding this place.*" He straightened, chuckling. "*Get used to the taste. It’s all you’ll know. The deal is , for every bladder full of piss you swallow down , you will be given one glass of clean water. For every steaming log of shit you chew and swallow , you will be given a handful of food. "
He turned and left, leaving the cell door ajar. Moments later, footsteps approached. The first guard stood in the doorway, already unlacing his trousers, a leer on his face. She heard the guard step closer, she opened her mouth. ( to be continued) .
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