Funny Faggy Footboy

Hi, I'm James, a confused, perverted 30 year old MTF boy from the UK. I've spent so long using so many other names, pretending to be a girl, but this is the real me, no matter how I try to escape it. I have a cock, my "tits" are too small to count, and I'm just hardwired to be a weak, submissive boy. I do have an unfortunate tendacy to forget myself, though helplessly addicted to hormones which only feed my delusions. I'm even convincing enough to trick most of the people in my life, but I can't run from my true self.

Some female can't compete with that lmao. I'm not sexually inclined, but for men who are, some women might think they have wet, juicy pussies to offer, or something like "the continuation of our species". Some trans men love theirs, and some would love to make more males, biologically. We don't need you for anything lmao.

I'll worship basically any man of any kind who so much as looks at me, but maybe I should get myself some dumb bitch to take my frustrations out on sometime...

Having my hair shaved not completely bald, but shorter and thinner than any of the boys. Forced into nothing but boxers, and O ring gag and a collar with a charm the reads "I SEXUALLY IDENTIFY AS A DOG, MY PRONOUNS ARE WOOF/WOOF". It's the funniest thing any of them have ever heard.

Being dragged to a pub, crawling behind them on a leash, absolute murder on my bare knees and palms. Dragged through to the beer garden, my leash around a table leg, the paving still stabbing into my knees but at least not having to crawl. Or not all the time, sometimes they'll pass my leash around so I'm forced to crawl a lap of the table, for no reason but to make it hurt even worse. Other than that, wrists cuffed behind my back. Having tobacco smoke blown in my nose, down my throat, sometimes at point blank, my exposed tongue their communal ashtray. Hearing them debate where on my body would be funniest to put it out, all I can do to defend myself is whine pathetically and shake my head frantically. Another burn somewhere sensitive, like my oversized pecs, and the used cigarette butt is tossed in my mouth.

Every time one of them stands up, I'm at high risk of a nice hard kick in the stomach, or the balls, on his way past. Maybe my stomach would have a red, boot shaped indent by the end of the night. If I'm lucky he'll just place his boot on the back of my head and push my face into the cold, hard, dirty ground. No need for any of them to bother with pub toilets when they can either lift my chin and discharge the stream of piss down my throat or over my head to drip all over me, soaking into my boxers and forming a warm puddle under my legs. If I can't hold my own all I can do is make a bigger puddle in front of them.

Because of my laughably low alcohol tolerance they could empty a gin, a rum, a vodka down my throat and I'd be completely retarded for them. When they're done, they'd drag me out to find a nice fence, cuff my hands back behind my back and wrap my leash around it. Forced to just kneel there alone in my pathetic, ruined state until someone takes pity and rescues me.