Garage Fuck: Lana Owned Me

I’m sitting here at 3:47 a.m. with the window cracked, cold air hitting my bare chest, and my dick is already half-hard just from remembering her smell. Not perfume. Not lotion. The real smell — that mix of warm skin, faint musk, the tiniest trace of lube and cum that clings to her even hours after we finish. This isn’t one of those polished “I discovered my kink” stories. This is ugly, sticky, embarrassing, beautiful filth. My personal trans fetish story. The one that keeps coming back to wreck me every time I try to pretend I’m normal again.

Her name was Lana.
Thirty-one. Voice like crushed velvet dragged over gravel. Five-eleven without heels, six-three when she wanted to tower over me. She had this way of standing — hips cocked, shoulders relaxed, chin slightly raised — that screamed “I know exactly what you’re thinking and I’m already three steps ahead of your shame.”

We met in the smoking area behind a techno club in late autumn. I was twenty-six, drunk enough to be honest, sober enough to remember every detail. She was leaning against the brick wall, black cigarette between blood-red nails, exhaling slow like she was tasting the night itself. Leather skirt so tight it looked painted on. Fishnets with intentional runs. Thigh-high boots that made obscene clicking sounds when she walked.

I stared too long. She caught me. Didn’t smile. Just raised one perfect eyebrow.

“You gonna keep eye-fucking me from across the alley or come say hi like a big boy?”

My heart slammed into my ribs so hard I thought it would crack them. I walked over. Legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

Up close she smelled like danger and sex and something metallic — maybe the zipper of her skirt, maybe the rings on her fingers, maybe just the adrenaline already flooding my system.

“You like what you see?” she asked, voice low enough that only I could hear.

I nodded. Dumb. Immediate.

“Words, puppy.”

“I… yeah. A lot.”

She took one more drag, flicked the cigarette away, then stepped right into my space. Her tits brushed my chest. I could feel the heat radiating off her body through the leather.

“You know what I am?” she whispered, lips almost touching my ear.

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“You’re trans.”

She hummed. Pleased. “Good. And you’re already getting hard thinking about it, aren’t you?”

There was no point lying. My jeans were betraying me completely.

She reached down, bold as fuck, and palmed me through the denim. One firm squeeze. I hissed.

“Thought so.” Her thumb circled the head through the fabric. “You’ve got that hungry little fetish look. The one that says you’ve jerked off to trans porn at 4 a.m. more times than you’ll ever admit.”

I couldn’t speak. Just nodded again.

She laughed — soft, dark, filthy. “Come home with me. I want to see how deep that kink really goes.”

The cab ride was torture. She sat with her legs crossed, skirt riding high enough that I could see the tops of her stockings and the shadow between her thighs. Every red light she would lean over and whisper something disgusting in my ear.

“I’m gonna make you choke on it.”
“Gonna fuck your throat until you cry.”
“Gonna fill that pretty mouth and watch you swallow every drop like the good little fag you are.”

By the time we got to her apartment I was shaking.

Door barely closed before she pushed me against the wall. Kissed me like she was trying to devour me. Tongue deep, teeth sharp, one hand already working my belt open while the other pinned my throat — not choking, just owning.

When she pulled back her lipstick was smeared across my mouth. She looked at it, satisfied.

“Strip. Everything. Now.”

I obeyed like my life depended on it. Shoes, socks, shirt, jeans, boxers — all gone in under thirty seconds. I stood there naked, cock throbbing, dripping, while she stayed fully dressed except for the skirt she slowly hiked up.

No panties.

Just her.

Thick. Heavy. Already glistening at the tip. Shaved smooth. Balls tight and full. The sight hit me like a drug. My knees almost buckled.

She stepped out of her boots, kicked them aside, then sat on the edge of her couch. Legs spread wide. Cock resting against her stomach like a loaded weapon.

“Crawl.”

I dropped to my hands and knees without hesitation. The hardwood was cold. My palms and knees stung. I didn’t care.

When I reached her she grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my face right between her thighs.

“Smell me first. Get used to it.”

I pressed my nose against the base of her shaft. Inhaled deep. Sweat, skin, faint soap, the clean animal scent of arousal. My mouth watered so hard I almost drooled on her.

“Lick.”

I started at her balls — slow, reverent, tongue flat. Tasted salt. Tasted her. Moved up the underside of her shaft, tracing every vein, every ridge. When I reached the head I swirled around the slit, collecting the steady leak of precum. She groaned — low, guttural, real.

“Open.”

I did.

She fed it to me inch by inch. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just inevitable. When I gagged she held me there, let me struggle, let tears run down my cheeks.

“Breathe through your nose, slut. You wanted this fetish. Now live it.”

I did. Eventually my throat opened. She started fucking my face in earnest — long, deep strokes that made obscene wet sounds echo in the room. Spit ran down my chin, dripped onto my chest. My own cock was aching, untouched, leaking a steady stream onto the floor.

She pulled out suddenly. Slapped my face with her wet dick — left cheek, right cheek, across my lips.

“Beg for it in your ass.”

I begged. Voice wrecked. Desperate. “Please Lana… please fuck me… I need it… need you inside me… please use me…”

She dragged me to the bedroom by my hair. Threw me face-down on the mattress. Yanked my hips up. Spread me open without ceremony.

I heard the cap of lube snap. Cold drip down my crack. Then her fingers — two at first, rough, impatient. Scissoring. Stretching. Adding a third. The burn was perfect. I moaned into the pillow like a bitch in heat.

“You’re so fucking tight,” she growled. “Gonna ruin this little hole for anyone who isn’t me.”

When she pushed in it felt like being split in half and put back together at the same time. She didn’t give me time to adjust. Just sank deep in one long, relentless thrust until her hips were flush against my ass.

I screamed into the mattress.

She fucked me hard. Brutal. Merciless. Skin slapping skin. Bedframe banging against the wall. Every thrust shoved my face deeper into the sheets. I could smell her on the pillow — shampoo, sweat, sex.

“Tell me what you are,” she demanded, pounding harder.

“I’m your slut… your cocksucking trans-fetish bitch… fuck—please—”

“Whose hole is this?”

“Yours… only yours…”

She reached around, grabbed my cock, jerked me rough in time with her thrusts.

“Come for me. Come while I breed you.”

I exploded almost instantly — thick ropes shooting across the sheets, my whole body convulsing. She didn’t stop. Kept fucking me through it, chasing her own orgasm. When she came she buried herself to the root and unloaded deep inside me. I felt every pulse. Felt her cock throb. Felt the heat flood me.

She stayed inside while we both caught our breath. Slowly softening. Cum leaking out around her shaft, running down my thighs.

She pulled out. Flipped me over. Looked down at the mess she made of me — tear-streaked face, cum on my stomach, leaking hole, swollen lips.

She leaned down. Kissed me slow. Tender for the first time that night.

“You were perfect,” she whispered against my mouth. “Fucking perfect.”

That was the first time.

It wasn’t the last.

Over the next eight months she turned me inside out in every way imaginable.

The riskiest night wasn’t in her apartment or some dimly lit hotel. It was in the underground parking garage beneath that same techno club where we first met — the one with flickering fluorescent lights, the constant low hum of ventilation fans, and the distant echo of bass from upstairs that made the whole concrete space feel alive, vibrating, like it was watching.

We’d been drinking, dancing, her body pressed against mine on the floor until I could feel every shift of her hips, every deliberate grind that reminded me what was waiting under that leather skirt. Around 2 a.m., when the crowd started thinning, she grabbed my wrist, nails digging in just enough to sting, and pulled me toward the emergency stairwell. No words. Just that look — dark eyes promising trouble.

We slipped down two flights, then through the heavy metal door into the garage. It was mostly empty at that hour: a few scattered cars, shadows pooling between concrete pillars, the air thick with the smell of exhaust, cold stone, and faint oil. A single overhead light buzzed and flickered, casting long, harsh shadows. Somewhere far off, a car alarm wailed briefly then died.

She pushed me back against a thick pillar, the rough concrete biting into my shoulders through my shirt. Her mouth crashed into mine — hungry, bruising, tasting like vodka and cigarettes and pure want. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so she could bite along my neck, hard enough to leave marks I’d have to hide for days.

“Here?” I gasped against her lips, half-laughing, half-terrified.

“Here,” she growled. “Right fucking now. Unless you’re too scared to get caught with a trans girl’s cock buried in your ass.”

The words alone made my dick jump. Fear and lust twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart.

She spun me around, face to the pillar, hands splayed on the cold concrete. I heard the zipper of her skirt rasp down — slow, deliberate, letting the sound echo. Then the soft rustle of fabric as she shoved it up around her hips. No panties, of course. Never panties when she knew we were going out.

Her hand shoved between my shoulder blades, pinning me in place. The other yanked my jeans and boxers down in one rough tug, just past my ass. Cold air hit my skin, making me shiver. Exposed. Vulnerable. Cock throbbing painfully against the rough pillar.

She spat into her palm — once, twice — then slicked herself. I felt the blunt head press against me, hot and insistent. No fingers first. No gentle prep. Just the threat of her, the promise of burn.

“Breathe,” she ordered, voice low and rough. “Or it’ll hurt more.”

I tried. The first push stole my air anyway. She didn’t stop. Inch by thick inch she forced her way in, the stretch brutal and exquisite. My knees buckled; she caught my hips, held me upright, nails digging into flesh.

“Fuck — Lana —”

“Quiet, slut,” she hissed, but I could hear the edge of her own moan. “Someone could come down any second. You want them to see you like this? Bent over, taking trans cock in a dirty garage like the desperate little fetish bitch you are?”

The humiliation flooded me, hot and dizzying. I bit my lip to keep from moaning too loud as she bottomed out, hips flush against my ass, balls pressed tight. She stayed there a moment, letting me feel the full weight of her inside me, throbbing, owning.

Then she started moving.

Slow at first — long, deep drags out, then slamming back in. Each thrust shoved me harder against the pillar, scraping my chest, my nipples raw through my shirt. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed off the concrete walls, obscene and unmistakable. Anyone walking past the stairwell door would hear it. Anyone pulling in for their car would see us — shadows moving, my jeans around my thighs, her skirt hiked, hips snapping forward.

She leaned over me, chest to my back, one hand sliding around to clamp over my mouth.

“Feel that?” she whispered, breath hot against my ear. “Every time I thrust, you’re leaking more. You’re dripping on the fucking floor. Such a messy boy for me.”

She was right. Precum strung from my cock in sticky threads, splattering the concrete with every brutal drive of her hips. The burn eased into pleasure — deep, grinding, prostate-hitting ecstasy that had me whimpering into her palm.

She fucked me faster. Harder. The pillar shook slightly with each impact. Her free hand reached around, wrapped around my aching dick, jerking me rough and uneven — not to make me come, just to torture.

“You love this,” she panted. “Love getting railed in public where anyone could walk in and see what a cock-hungry fag you are for trans dick.”

I moaned into her hand — loud, broken, desperate. Yes. Fuck yes.

Headlights swept across the far wall suddenly — a car turning down the ramp. We both froze for a split second.

She didn’t pull out.

Instead she pressed deeper, grinding slow circles inside me, her hand tightening over my mouth until I could barely breathe.

The car idled somewhere behind the pillars — engine rumbling, headlights painting long beams across the space. Doors opened. Voices. Two people laughing, arguing about something trivial.

Lana started fucking me again — slower now, but deeper, deliberate. Each thrust silent but devastating. I was shaking, tears pricking my eyes from the effort not to make a sound. The risk made everything sharper: the stretch, the heat, the slick slide of her cock claiming me while strangers wandered thirty feet away.

She whispered filth right against my ear, voice barely audible:

“They’re right there. They could turn the corner and see you — pants down, ass full of my cum soon. You’d come so hard if they watched, wouldn’t you?”

I nodded frantically, muffled sobs against her palm.

The voices faded. Doors slammed. The car pulled away.

The second the engine noise died, she unleashed.

Fucked me like she wanted to break me — fast, punishing, hips slamming so hard my teeth rattled. Her hand flew to my cock again, stroking in brutal rhythm.

“Come,” she snarled. “Come right now while I breed you in this filthy fucking garage.”

I shattered.

Cum shot across the pillar in thick ropes, splattering concrete, dripping down. My whole body convulsed, ass clenching around her like a vice. She groaned — low, feral — and buried herself deep, pulsing, flooding me with heat. I felt every spurt, every throb as she emptied inside me.

She stayed buried while we both panted, sweat cooling on our skin. Slowly she pulled out — wet, obscene sound echoing — and cum immediately leaked down my thighs.

She spun me around, kissed me hard, tasting of sweat and victory.

“Pull your pants up,” she said, smirking. “Walk back upstairs like a good boy with my load dripping out of you.”

I did. Every step reminded me — slick, warm, filthy. The stairwell stairs felt endless. When we got back to the club floor, the music hit like a wall, bodies everywhere, and no one knew.

But I knew.

She knew.

And that secret — the cum still leaking, the ache in my ass, the taste of her on my tongue — made the rest of the night feel electric.

That’s the kind of public sex that stays with you. Not the fantasy version. The real one: terrifying, degrading, perfect. The one where the risk is as much the drug as the cock inside you.

And yeah… I’d do it again tomorrow if she snapped her fingers.

Lana moved to Berlin last spring.
We still message sometimes. Dirty voice notes. Photos that make me hard in seconds. Promises that the next time she’s in town she’s going to “fuck me until I forget my own name again.”

I jerk off to those messages more than I care to admit.

And every time I come I still whisper her name like a prayer.

That’s the thing about a real trans fetish story.

It doesn’t end.
It just lives inside you — sticky, hot, shameless — forever.

And I wouldn’t trade a single filthy second of it.

public sex scene

The riskiest night with Lana wasn’t in her apartment or some dimly lit hotel. It was in the underground parking garage beneath that same techno club where we first met — the one with flickering fluorescent lights, the constant low hum of ventilation fans, and the distant echo of bass from upstairs that made the whole concrete space feel alive, vibrating, like it was watching.

We’d been drinking, dancing, her body pressed against mine on the floor until I could feel every shift of her hips, every deliberate grind that reminded me what was waiting under that leather skirt. Around 2 a.m., when the crowd started thinning, she grabbed my wrist, nails digging in just enough to sting, and pulled me toward the emergency stairwell. No words. Just that look — dark eyes promising trouble.

We slipped down two flights, then through the heavy metal door into the garage. It was mostly empty at that hour: a few scattered cars, shadows pooling between concrete pillars, the air thick with the smell of exhaust, cold stone, and faint oil. A single overhead light buzzed and flickered, casting long, harsh shadows. Somewhere far off, a car alarm wailed briefly then died.

She pushed me back against a thick pillar, the rough concrete biting into my shoulders through my shirt. Her mouth crashed into mine — hungry, bruising, tasting like vodka and cigarettes and pure want. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so she could bite along my neck, hard enough to leave marks I’d have to hide for days.

“Here?” I gasped against her lips, half-laughing, half-terrified.

“Here,” she growled. “Right fucking now. Unless you’re too scared to get caught with a trans girl’s cock buried in your ass.”

The words alone made my dick jump. Fear and lust twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart.

She spun me around, face to the pillar, hands splayed on the cold concrete. I heard the zipper of her skirt rasp down — slow, deliberate, letting the sound echo. Then the soft rustle of fabric as she shoved it up around her hips. No panties, of course. Never panties when she knew we were going out.

Her hand shoved between my shoulder blades, pinning me in place. The other yanked my jeans and boxers down in one rough tug, just past my ass. Cold air hit my skin, making me shiver. Exposed. Vulnerable. Cock throbbing painfully against the rough pillar.

She spat into her palm — once, twice — then slicked herself. I felt the blunt head press against me, hot and insistent. No fingers first. No gentle prep. Just the threat of her, the promise of burn.

“Breathe,” she ordered, voice low and rough. “Or it’ll hurt more.”

I tried. The first push stole my air anyway. She didn’t stop. Inch by thick inch she forced her way in, the stretch brutal and exquisite. My knees buckled; she caught my hips, held me upright, nails digging into flesh.

“Fuck — Lana —”

“Quiet, slut,” she hissed, but I could hear the edge of her own moan. “Someone could come down any second. You want them to see you like this? Bent over, taking trans cock in a dirty garage like the desperate little fetish bitch you are?”

The humiliation flooded me, hot and dizzying. I bit my lip to keep from moaning too loud as she bottomed out, hips flush against my ass, balls pressed tight. She stayed there a moment, letting me feel the full weight of her inside me, throbbing, owning.

Then she started moving.

Slow at first — long, deep drags out, then slamming back in. Each thrust shoved me harder against the pillar, scraping my chest, my nipples raw through my shirt. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed off the concrete walls, obscene and unmistakable. Anyone walking past the stairwell door would hear it. Anyone pulling in for their car would see us — shadows moving, my jeans around my thighs, her skirt hiked, hips snapping forward.

She leaned over me, chest to my back, one hand sliding around to clamp over my mouth.

“Feel that?” she whispered, breath hot against my ear. “Every time I thrust, you’re leaking more. You’re dripping on the fucking floor. Such a messy boy for me.”

She was right. Precum strung from my cock in sticky threads, splattering the concrete with every brutal drive of her hips. The burn eased into pleasure — deep, grinding, prostate-hitting ecstasy that had me whimpering into her palm.

She fucked me faster. Harder. The pillar shook slightly with each impact. Her free hand reached around, wrapped around my aching dick, jerking me rough and uneven — not to make me come, just to torture.

“You love this,” she panted. “Love getting railed in public where anyone could walk in and see what a cock-hungry fag you are for trans dick.”

I moaned into her hand — loud, broken, desperate. Yes. Fuck yes.

Headlights swept across the far wall suddenly — a car turning down the ramp. We both froze for a split second.

She didn’t pull out.

Instead she pressed deeper, grinding slow circles inside me, her hand tightening over my mouth until I could barely breathe.

The car idled somewhere behind the pillars — engine rumbling, headlights painting long beams across the space. Doors opened. Voices. Two people laughing, arguing about something trivial.

Lana started fucking me again — slower now, but deeper, deliberate. Each thrust silent but devastating. I was shaking, tears pricking my eyes from the effort not to make a sound. The risk made everything sharper: the stretch, the heat, the slick slide of her cock claiming me while strangers wandered thirty feet away.

She whispered filth right against my ear, voice barely audible:

“They’re right there. They could turn the corner and see you — pants down, ass full of my cum soon. You’d come so hard if they watched, wouldn’t you?”

I nodded frantically, muffled sobs against her palm.

The voices faded. Doors slammed. The car pulled away.

The second the engine noise died, she unleashed.

Fucked me like she wanted to break me — fast, punishing, hips slamming so hard my teeth rattled. Her hand flew to my cock again, stroking in brutal rhythm.

“Come,” she snarled. “Come right now while I breed you in this filthy fucking garage.”

I shattered.

Cum shot across the pillar in thick ropes, splattering concrete, dripping down. My whole body convulsed, ass clenching around her like a vice. She groaned — low, feral — and buried herself deep, pulsing, flooding me with heat. I felt every spurt, every throb as she emptied inside me.

She stayed buried while we both panted, sweat cooling on our skin. Slowly she pulled out — wet, obscene sound echoing — and cum immediately leaked down my thighs, warm and thick, pooling at my ankles.

She spun me around, kissed me hard, tasting of sweat and victory and the metallic tang of fear.

“Pull your pants up,” she said, smirking, voice still rough from moaning. “Walk back upstairs like a good boy with my load dripping out of you. Let it remind you who owns this ass.”

I did. Every step reminded me — slick, warm, filthy, sliding between my cheeks with every movement. The stairwell stairs felt endless, each one sending fresh jolts through my oversensitive hole. When we got back to the club floor, the music hit like a wall, bodies everywhere, lights strobing, and no one knew.

But I knew.

She knew.

And that secret — the cum still leaking, the ache in my ass, the taste of her on my tongue, the faint scrape of concrete on my palms — made the rest of the night feel electric, dangerous, alive.

That’s the kind of public sex that stays with you. Not the fantasy version where everything is smooth and cinematic. The real one: terrifying, degrading, messy, perfect. The one where the risk is as much the drug as the thick trans cock inside you.

And yeah… I’d do it again tomorrow if she snapped her fingers.