The Hotel Tranny Offered Me More Than a Massage

Three weeks ago, I had a four-day work trip to Oruro. Anyone who knows the Bolivian altiplano knows what I’m talking about: a gray, windy city where by six in the evening the street is empty and all you have left is the hotel room and the sound of rusty water running through the central heating pipes. I arrived on a Monday in the middle of the afternoon, with my suitcase half-packed and a fatigue that had worked its way into my bones since I left El Alto airport.

The first night I slept badly. The second was when it all started.

My wife and I have spent years in that long-relationship routine where sex becomes a biweekly errand, almost like paperwork. I’ve been getting off online for a long time without her knowing. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I’m not going to pretend otherwise here. That second night I logged into a video chat room and, after several tries, found an Argentine who went by Iván. He was in his forties, had a deep voice, and a messy apartment behind him. And above all, he knew how to talk. That’s what turns me on more than the image: the way people talk.

—Take off your T-shirt —he told me as soon as he saw I was hesitating—. I don’t care if you’re cold. I want to see you tremble.

I did as he said. I pulled down to my underwear. Then a little more. He made me kneel on the bed, naked, showing him my ass and my cock on the laptop camera. He made me spit on my hand and grab my dick with two fingers, moving it slowly, not squeezing, exactly as he told me. Then he made me switch to my whole palm and jerk off while looking him in the eyes. Iván had pulled his own out of his joggers: thick, dark from base to tip, with marked veins. He stroked it unhurriedly, like someone with no urgency because he knows I’m the one who’s desperate.

—Spit on your nipples —he ordered—. Both of them. And pinch them while you’re jerking off. I want to see them get hard, slut.

I obeyed. I spit on my fingers and pinched myself until it hurt, while with my other hand I kept masturbating. He made me open my legs on the bed, balance on my heels, show him my balls and asshole to the camera. He made me lick two fingers and slide them between my cheeks, not actually inside, just resting there, pressing in circles so he could see my ring clench.

—Put it in —he said—. One finger. Slowly. Show me how you eat it.

I put it in. One whole finger, up to the knuckle. My head was heavy, my cock was dripping precum onto my navel. Iván sped up on his end. He treated me like a whore, with that exact word, and also like a hot faggot, and like a hungry asshole, and my head went blank from so much filthy talk crashing down on me. When we finished —he finished, I stayed on the edge, not cumming, with my cock hard and throbbing against my stomach— he ended the video call without saying goodbye, as if it were just another task completed.

I was horny. No, worse: I was stuck with that quiet anger of erections that don’t get relieved. I could have jerked off. I decided not to. I wanted to wait. I wanted to see how far the heat would go if I let it build.

The next morning I went to the meeting with the client, a logistics company that occupied two floors of a bland building facing the square. I drank bad coffee, nodded when I was supposed to nod, signed a couple of papers. At one-thirty we were heading out to lunch. At three I said goodbye and walked back to the hotel.

***

I went up to the room and sat on the bed with my phone in my hand. It wasn’t a conscious decision: it was like when the body has already decided and the mind is slow to catch up. I started searching. Massage ads. Massage ads at your place. Then, more specific ads.

I found the ad for a tranny who was advertising on a page most people pretend not to know. The profile photo was from behind, but you could make out her broad back, strong shoulders, and long dark hair down to the middle of her back. She said her name was Renata. She said it was her first week working in Oruro and that she offered “massages and whatever fits.” The number was at the bottom.

I called. She answered with a voice deeper than I expected, but kind, almost warm.

—Hello, are you available this afternoon? —I asked, trying to sound firm.

—For you, yes, baby —she answered, with an accent mixing Argentine and La Paz—. Do you want me to go there or are you coming?

I told her I’d go. She gave me an address fifteen blocks from the hotel, in a neighborhood that the concierge, when I asked for general directions without mentioning the exact street, described as “quiet, but not really meant for walking around at night.” I took a taxi. Paid cash. Got out on the wrong corner on purpose and walked the last two blocks looking everywhere.

The building was new, without a doorman. I went up to the fourth floor. Knocked twice. She opened the door.

She was taller than me, not by much, but enough that I had to lift my chin a little. I’m of medium build, a little gym-toned but nothing extreme. Renata had broad shoulders, defined arms, and a waist marked in a way that took me a second to process. She wore a short cheap silk robe, burgundy, and underneath it you could make out black panties that hid nothing.

—Come in —she said, stepping aside.

The apartment smelled of cinnamon incense and something deeper, like recent sweat covered with sweet perfume. The lights were off and two candles were burning on a dresser. The bed was covered with a white towel, ready for the massage. A small table beside it held oil, a scented candle, and a couple of other things I preferred not to take in yet.

—Want something to drink? —she offered.

—No, thanks. I’m fine.

She let out a small laugh.

—Your voice is shaking —she said—. Relax. Nobody here is going to do anything you don’t want.

***

She told me to undress. I asked her to turn around because I was embarrassed, and she did it without arguing. I was left in my underwear and lay face down on the bed. I felt her moving behind me. I also felt, despite myself, my gaze keep drifting to the wardrobe mirror, where I could see her opening the oil bottle and warming it between her hands.

But before she started, I turned over. I don’t know why. Maybe because I already knew where this was going and didn’t want to keep pretending. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her. She was standing there, robe open, the panties straining against a bulge that stuck out without shame.

—You want it? —she asked simply, seeing where I was looking.

I didn’t answer with words. I reached out and pulled her panties down to her thighs.

She didn’t have a big cock. On the contrary: it was a moderate size, almost modest, about five and a half inches, just slightly curved upward, with a pink shiny head. But it was hard, straight, clean, and my mouth dried up in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. Below it, instead of the balls I expected, she had a small scrotum tucked against the body, almost feminine. I took it in my hand first, feeling the weight, the temperature, how it pulsed against my palm. I ran my thumb over the tip and wiped away a drop of clear liquid that was already beading there. I brought my thumb to my mouth. Salty, warm, with that mineral flavor you only know when you taste it.

—You’re a greedy one —she murmured from above, watching me do it.

I leaned forward and ran my tongue from the base to the tip, slowly, feeling the path of a thick vein rising along the underside. Then I licked the head in circles, sucking it lightly with my lips, playing. She let out a sigh that sounded almost surprised. And then, without thinking any more, I took it all the way into my mouth until I felt the tickle of her pubic hair against the tip of my nose.

—Oh, you little slut —she murmured, grabbing my hair—. You know your way around. You’ve done this before.

I didn’t answer her. It was a lie and true at the same time. I’d done it in my head thousands of times. In real life, never. But my body moved on its own, as if it remembered a life I hadn’t lived.

I stayed at it for a long while. I focused on moving her slowly, on feeling how she swelled against my palate, on the slightly salty taste of the head each time I pulled back to breathe. I sucked her from top to bottom, letting it brush my cheek before taking it back in. I licked her scrotum, the veins along the sides, the line running underneath until it disappeared between her legs. Every time I changed angle, she squeezed the back of my neck a little harder, not forcing me, but setting the pace. At one point she pushed it all the way down my throat and held it there for a few seconds, feeling how I ran out of air, how my eyes watered, how my throat gave in. When she let me go, a thread of saliva hung from my chin.

—That’s it, baby —she said—. Like that. Swallow it. Like it’s yours.

I did as she said. I sucked her until I felt her throbbing against my tongue, that pulsing that tells you it’s almost time. She started moving her hips against my face, fucking my mouth slowly, without brutality, but without letting me escape either.

—If you keep going like this, I’m going to cum —she said after a while—. Do you want me to cum in that sweet little mouth, or do you want to keep going?

I lifted my head, lips shining, and told her:

—I want the massage. The one I came for.

She smiled. It wasn’t a naughty smile: it was the smile of someone who already knows what’s going to happen.

***

I lay back down face down. This time she climbed onto the bed and settled astride me at the height of my thighs. She started with my shoulders, my shoulder blades, my lower back. She really knew how to do it. It wasn’t a fake massage: she had technique, pressure, rhythm. I started to loosen up against the towel. I could feel her cock, still hard, resting now and then against the backs of my thighs, leaving me a warm oily trace each time she moved.

When I realized it, my underwear was no longer where it had been. She’d pulled it down to my thighs without my catching the exact moment. Her hands kept slipping between my cheeks with each pass, each time a little farther in, under the excuse of the oil spilling out. She spread my ass with both thumbs and closed it again, like kneading dough. I had my cock flattened against the towel, hard as iron, pressing against the mattress every time she squeezed.

I didn’t say anything. Letting it happen was already an answer.

Then I felt her part my cheeks with both hands and spit between them. The warm saliva ran over my entrance and down to my scrotum, and my whole body tightened like a cable. Then came something worse, or better: I felt her lower her face and run her tongue from my scrotum to my tailbone in one slow, warm, long lick. A moan escaped me into the pillow that I didn’t know where it had come from.

—Stay still —she murmured, her mouth still pressed down there—. Stay still, baby.

She licked me again. And again. She drove her tongue into my ring, circled it, pushed just a little inside. She grabbed my hips and forced me to lift my ass toward her face, and then she really went to town on it, eating me like it was the only thing she had for dinner. I buried my face in the pillow so I wouldn’t scream. Never in my life had anyone done that to me. Not even close. My dick was dripping against the towel, and she knew it, because she lowered one hand between my legs, grabbed me from behind, and worked me slowly while she kept eating my asshole with her mouth.

—You’re soaked —she said, and this time the feminine form wasn’t a mistake, it was a choice—. You’re dripping, pretty slut.

She got up for a second. I heard a drawer open. Then I felt the mattress dip with her weight again.

—Renata —I said, speaking into the pillow—. I didn’t come here for this.

—I know, baby —she replied—. I’m not going to do anything to you either. I’m just going to rest the tip there. Just the little head. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.

She left the condom and the lube on the bed, within reach of my hand, as if she wanted me to see they were there, that there were no secrets. And she kept massaging.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe fifteen. Between strokes, I felt her put the condom on, oil her cock calmly, without haste. When she parted my cheeks again, this time it no longer felt like a massage. I felt the cold of the lubricant fall between my cheeks and run down in a thread. I felt her two fingers smearing it around my ring, slipping in just the first knuckle, circling, opening. One whole finger went in. Then two. I ran out of air. My ring relaxed against its will. And then I felt the head of the condom press against that door that had been closed for two years.

***

I don’t know how long it took me to let her in. I only know that she waited. She didn’t push. She pressed and waited. She talked to me in my ear meanwhile, silly things and not-so-silly things, telling me it was fine, to breathe, to relax my ass like I was trying to pee backwards, phrases that in any other context would have made me laugh and now sounded like a step-by-step guide.

—Push back against me —she whispered in my ear—. Push your ass back so it goes in on its own.

I did as she said. I lifted my hips a little and pushed back. First I felt the head open my ring all at once, like forcing a tight ring through. It hurt. It hurt enough that my eyes filled with tears without my deciding to cry. She noticed and asked me in my ear how long it had been.

—Like two years —I said into the pillow.

She went quiet for a second. Then I felt her harden even more inside me. That had turned her on.

—My poor baby —she murmured, almost tender, almost cruel—. You really needed this ass full. You’d been keeping it all to yourself.

She moved a little farther. One centimeter. Another. Then a little more. She wasn’t big, as I said, and I thanked that detail the way a drowning man thanks the exact branch that keeps him afloat. I stretched little by little, and when I felt her all the way inside, when the hairs of her pubic mound tickled my tailbone, it was like something had finally clicked into place. Like the body, after years of refusing, had at last accepted that this was what it had been missing.

She started moving slowly. She pulled almost all the way out and then pushed back into me to the hilt, with a patience that wrecked me. She grabbed my shoulders with both hands. Rested her forehead against the back of my neck. Picked up speed. She fucked me with short, dry thrusts that made the mattress springs squeak. Every hit pulled a different gasp out of me, one sharper, one more broken, and I no longer bothered trying to hide them.

—Show me your ass —she panted—. Lift it. Fuck yourself too.

I got down on my knees under her, chest against the towel and ass high in the air. Renata stood behind me, holding my hips, and from there she drove it in harder, deeper, with all her hand marking the flesh of my cheeks. Every thrust made a wet, obscene smack against her thighs. I had my cock hard, hanging between my legs, leaking precum onto the towel untouched.

—Touch it —she ordered, never stopping—. Jack it off while I fuck you. I want you to cum with my cock inside you.

I slipped one hand between my legs and grabbed my cock. Four or five pulls were enough. I came like that, ass open and her cock deep inside, shooting semen across the towel in three long bursts that shook my whole body. My ass clenched suddenly around her, squeezing her, and I heard her let out a low “fuck” through her teeth.

At some point she stopped talking and started breathing heavily against my ear, with that heavy breathing only bodies have when they have no choice left but to empty themselves. She took me by the hair, pulled my head back, and fucked me those last twenty seconds without mercy, hunting her orgasm against my tight ass.

I felt given over. That was the exact word that crossed my mind, and I didn’t bother correcting it to the masculine. I felt given over. She rode me like I was part of the mattress, like the ass she was fucking wasn’t mine but some random woman’s ass who had the luck to end up there that afternoon.

When she came, I felt it in the way her thighs locked against mine, in the way her cock swelled even more inside me. She let out a hard breath against my neck, almost angry, almost in pain, and emptied herself there, deep in the condom, with three or four final thrusts that stole my breath. She stayed for a few seconds draped over my back, panting, with her cock still inside and throbbing, emptying itself.

Then she sat up. She pulled out carefully, holding the base of the condom with two fingers so it wouldn’t stay inside me. I felt the emptiness hit all at once, that strange emptiness I had never felt before, as if I were missing something. I heard her tie off the condom and toss it into a bin. She went into the bathroom.

I stayed face down for a full minute. Just one minute. Then I got up, wiped myself with a tissue she had intentionally left on the small table, pulled my underwear up, got dressed. When she came out of the bathroom, still in that burgundy robe, there was nothing left to say.

—What’s your real name? —she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

I gave her a name that wasn’t mine.

—Take care —she said—. And if you come back through Oruro, you know where to find me.

I went down the stairs one by one, still feeling that quiet burn, and stepped out onto the windy street. The altiplano was waiting for me with its harsh five o’clock light, with no witnesses. I walked the fifteen blocks back to the hotel without looking at anyone.

That night I slept straight through. Better than I had slept in months.