The Night I Was Who I’d Always Wanted to Be

Dear diary:

I’m going to tell you what happened on Saturday night, though I don’t know if I’ll be able to write it without blushing. Sit down. This is going to take a while.

The costume party at Nicolás’s place was the event of the month. One of those nights where everyone goes wanting to let loose a little, to put on something they’d never wear in normal circumstances, to become someone different for a few hours. And I took the opportunity like never before.

I got ready for three hours. Long chestnut wig down to my shoulders, dark red lipstick, fishnet stockings, a tight black miniskirt, and gold stiletto heels that had been sitting in the back of the closet for months waiting for this moment. The stuffing in the chest turned out more natural than I expected. The corset cinched my waist in a way that made me feel uncomfortable and completely in my place at the same time.

When I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving, something inside me settled into place. As if that figure were the most honest version of me I had seen in years. Beneath the miniskirt, the black lace underwear could barely contain an erection that had spent half an hour refusing to go down.

I arrived at the party after eleven. The apartment was packed, the music loud, the atmosphere thick with alcohol and that particular electricity nights have when anything can happen. Several people looked at me when I walked in. Some with surprise, others with curiosity, one or two with a smile that was anything but innocent.

I poured myself a drink and started moving around.

At first I was cautious. I talked to acquaintances, danced a little, drank enough to relax without losing my head. But as the night went on, the drink gave me more and caution gave me less. And what also grew, without my being able to do anything to stop it, was that heat between my legs that had been with me since I got dressed. My ass was tight, my cock hard and stuck to my thigh, and a strange wet mix of sweat and need was soaking my underwear.

That was when I saw him.

Tall, dark, dressed as something vaguely military that suited him too well. He had the kind of gaze that goes straight for what it wants without asking permission. And that gaze, at that moment, was on me. His eyes dropped to my mouth, moved down to my cleavage, and rose again without even trying to hide it, with a half-smile that said, “I already know what’s under all that, and I don’t care.”

He started with subtle gestures. A nod toward the hallway. A look held two seconds longer than necessary. I acted distracted the first time, and the second, because I liked the game and wanted to see how far it would go.

It went pretty far.

The third time I followed him. A few steps behind him, heart racing, heels clicking on the hallway floor. The bathroom at the end was empty. He was waiting inside with the door half open.

He locked the latch as soon as I came in.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He watched me with that expression that mixes desire with something darker, something more possessive. Then he put a hand on my shoulder and pressed downward, slowly but without hesitation.

—On your knees —he said, his voice rough.

And I obeyed.

The cold tiles bit through my stockings. He unzipped his pants without taking his eyes off my face and pulled out a cock already half hard, thick, with a shiny head. He took my chin between two fingers and ran it across my painted lips, leaving me a trail of spit and precum that slid to the corner of my mouth.

—Open your mouth —he ordered.

I opened it. He went in at once, all the way to the back, and made me cough. He didn’t pull out. He tangled his fingers in my wig, yanked it back to position me better, and shoved again, this time setting the pace himself. I felt his cock grow between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, harden completely inside my mouth, throb against my throat each time he hit the back.

—That’s it, slut —he murmured—. Suck it.

I obeyed. I sucked, pressing my lips around the shaft, teasing the underside of the head with my tongue, swallowing my saliva every time he let me breathe. Tears welled up from the effort, and mascara ran down my cheeks, and I didn’t care about anything. He dug his fingers into the back of my neck and started fucking my mouth for real, without mercy, all the way down my throat, with short, hard thrusts that made my lips slam against his pubic bone.

—I’m going to cum —he warned through clenched teeth.

He didn’t give me time to decide anything. He drove in one last time, pressed my head against his pelvis, and came in my mouth with a low groan. I felt the hot spurts burst against my palate, thick, salty, one after another. He pinched my nose shut with two fingers until I swallowed everything. When he finally pulled out, a thread of cum was left hanging from my lower lip. He wiped it up with his thumb, put it in my mouth, and walked out of the bathroom as calmly as if he’d just gone to wash his hands.

I came out a couple of minutes later. Lipstick smeared, the taste of his load still on my tongue, and something burning inside me that the drink hadn’t lit.

***

Back in the living room, the night had a different color. I felt lighter, more confident, more me. I moved through the crowd with a confidence I hadn’t had before and devoted myself to dancing. My cock was still throbbing inside the lace, and my ass clenched on its own every time I remembered what had just happened in the bathroom.

I found him while dancing.

His name was —or at least that’s what he said— Mateo. Big, broad-backed, with a slow smile that took its time forming but, once it did, was hard to ignore. We danced without talking at first, just our bodies saying things words would have ruined. I let my hip brush his. He answered by squeezing his hands around my waist, pulling me toward him. I could feel the hard bulge clearly against my ass, long, outlined beneath his pants, and I pushed back a little to let him know I’d noticed.

—You’ve got something —he said near my ear, not finishing the sentence.

—Got what? —I asked, though I knew perfectly well what he meant.

He looked me up and down with the calm of someone who isn’t in a hurry because he already knows how everything is going to end. He slid a hand down my waist, along my hip, and squeezed one ass cheek over the miniskirt, possessive, like he was marking territory.

—Want to go out for a smoke? —he suggested.

I don’t smoke. But I said yes.

One of his friends heard us and came along. Dark-haired too, younger, already a little lost in alcohol. The three of us went outside. There was a narrow planter and a wooden bench by the building’s façade. The friend sat down, leaned his head against the wall, and in less than two minutes had fallen asleep sitting up, with his drink still in his hand.

Mateo and I looked at each other.

We slipped between the planter and the building wall without saying anything else.

The hunger that had built up all night had me on the edge of something I couldn’t name. He went straight for the corset, lowered it just enough to free the padding, and what he did then surprised me: he didn’t give a damn that it was artificial. He worked it with his hands and mouth as if it were the realest thing in the world, biting it slowly, squeezing it, studying it with an attention that raised goosebumps on my skin. He sucked my fake nipples, bit my neck, shoved his tongue into my mouth with a filthy, deep kiss that tasted like whiskey.

Meanwhile, I had already lowered his zipper. I slipped a hand inside his pants and found it: thick, hot, fully awake, the head already wet. I wrapped my fingers around the shaft and started jerking him slowly, feeling him throb in my palm, taking in the length, imagining him inside me.

—Fuck —he muttered against my neck—. You’re a filthy slut.

—Yeah —I answered, and there wasn’t a single grain of shame in my voice.

—Kneel —he ordered, in a voice that left no room for negotiation.

I knelt in the dirt, my stockings already torn by the stones on the ground. I pulled his pants down to mid-thigh, took his cock out completely, and put it in my mouth without preamble. It was bigger than the first one, thicker, and it pried my jaws open until it hurt. He took my wig between his fingers and started setting the rhythm, slow at first, then more demanding. He shoved it down my throat, pulled it all the way out, gave me a second to gulp air, and shoved it back in.

All the while he talked to me, words that would have been insulting in any other context but here, in that darkness, with the party noise behind us and the cold ground under my knees, went somewhere completely different.

—Look at you, eating it like a whore. Look at me. Don’t close your eyes.

I looked up without stopping sucking, my mouth full of his cock, saliva dripping down my chin to my cleavage. He smiled, satisfied, and shoved his cock in until my nose sank into his pubic bone. Tears escaped me again. He left me there for a few seconds, pressed against him, enjoying the feel of my throat closing around him.

—Mine. You’re mine tonight. Say it.

He pulled back just enough to let me speak. I, with my voice destroyed, my mouth a mess of spit and smeared lipstick, told him.

—I’m yours.

—Good girl.

When he lifted me up, he did it in one motion. He turned me around, planted my hands against the brick wall, and yanked up my miniskirt. I felt the cold air on my ass and the delicious shame of being like that, half-naked in an alley, with the lace lowered to my thighs and a hard cock pressing against the crack of my ass.

He put two fingers in my mouth, made me suck them properly, then brought them down to my ass. The first went in with effort. The second, just after, made me moan against the wall. He moved them slowly, opening me, getting me ready, while with the other hand he stroked my hard cock beneath the skirt.

—You’re soaked —he murmured into my ear—. You’re dripping all on your own. You little cunt.

—Yeah —I panted.

He pulled his fingers out. He spat into his hand, spread the saliva over his cock, and pressed the head against my opening.

—Tell me you want it.

—I want it. Fuck me. Please.

The penetration was brutal. He shoved in at once and I felt a sharp pain that stole my breath and made me squeeze my eyes shut. A muffled moan slipped out of me. He didn’t stop entirely, but he didn’t push farther right away either. He stayed halfway in, hands firm on my hips, waiting for my body to start yielding around his cock.

—There you are —he murmured.

And yes. There I was. With someone else’s cock shoved halfway up my ass, torn stockings, and a crooked wig, pressed against a brick wall on the façade of a stranger’s building.

He pushed again. He went all the way in. I felt his pelvis slam against my ass and a jolt of pain and pleasure mixed together that blurred my vision for a second.

What came after was a blend of pain and pleasure I couldn’t separate even if I wanted to. He found a rhythm and kept it, deep, steady, unhurried. He was really fucking me, driving in to the hilt, with the wet sound of skin slapping skin filling the small space between the brick wall and the planter. He had me completely in his hands and he knew it, and he used that power with a precision that made me tremble.

Sometimes he’d yank my hair to tilt my head back and bite my neck. Sometimes he’d cover my mouth with his palm to muffle the sounds I couldn’t hold back. Sometimes he’d drop a hand to my cock, take it fully in his grip, and jack me off at the same rhythm as he fucked me from behind, until I started shaking and clenched around him, and then he’d let go, chuckling under his breath, so as not to let me come yet.

—Want it harder? —he asked at some point.

—Yeah —I said, and I don’t know where I found the voice.

He gave it to me harder. He dug his nails into my hips and started hammering into me with everything he had, no rhythm, almost with anger, ripping the breath out of me with every blow. My head knocked against the bricks. My heels dug in crookedly in the dirt. And I pushed my ass back toward him, looking for him, asking for more, deeper each time.

There was something liberating about giving myself over like that, in that filthy corner between a planter and a brick wall, with my stockings shredded and my lipstick a mess. There was no performance. No image to maintain. Just that huge body behind mine, that cock opening me, that pain turning into something else, that darkness allowing me to be exactly what I was with no explanations and no apologies.

He grabbed my cock again and this time he didn’t let go. He jerked me fast, his palm slick with saliva, while he kept driving into me all the way down. I felt the orgasm rise from my belly, long, slow, impossible to stop.

—Come for me —he whispered in my ear—. Now.

I came. I stained the wall, his hand, the inside of the miniskirt. It was a brutal, long orgasm that made me squeeze my ass so hard around his cock that he let out a groan and followed me over the edge.

When he came, he did it with a low groan and his fingers clamping my hips so hard I knew I’d have marks the next day. I felt the hot bursts explode inside me, one after another, filling me, and his spasm spreading through my whole body.

He stayed inside for a moment, forehead against the back of my neck, breathing hard. Then he pulled out slowly. I felt the cum run down the inside of my thighs, hot, sticky, and I did nothing to wipe it away. I stayed leaning against the wall for a moment, my knees a little weak and something inside me completely stirred up and completely at peace at the same time.

—Are you okay? —he asked, and there was a softness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

—Yes —I said.

And it was true.

***

I went back to the party alone. I fixed myself up as best I could in the bathroom, touched up my lips, straightened my wig. I cleaned myself as best I could between my thighs with paper, knowing the semen would stay with me until I got home. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw myself differently than before I’d left home. Not more whole, exactly, but more honest.

I danced for another hour. I drank water. I said goodbye to Nicolás and a couple of friends. I called a taxi.

On the way home, with the city sliding past the window and my torn stockings in my bag, I kept processing everything that had happened. The men’s desire. The first man’s load still lingering on my palate in memory. The second man’s cock opening me against the brick. The darkness of the planter. The pain I didn’t want to stop. The way my body, dressed up as something that maybe wasn’t a costume at all, had answered all of it with an intensity I didn’t remember ever feeling before.

There are things I can’t analyze too much without them slipping through my fingers. I know what I liked. I know what I needed that night. And I know I’d do it again.

That’s enough for now.