He Wrote to Me Through My Blog and Arrived at the Farm on Crutches

After a long year in a cramped apartment that never quite felt like mine, I started my life of moving. I rented, settled in, stayed for a year or two, and then went looking again. Sometimes I thought that instability had to do with going out at night dressed in women’s clothes; in some neighborhoods people pay attention, and I preferred not to have to give explanations to the neighbors. There was only one house where I stayed four years, and even today I’m still not sure why.

The move I remember most was the one that took me to a farm on the outskirts. An acquaintance of the family had it sitting empty and offered it to me at a reasonable price. I packed the bags, loaded the car, and left. My children came almost every weekend; they loved the open space, the silence, the different pace of those mornings. I thought living so far away would complicate sex, and partly it did: the men who came did so more slowly, with more time. I kept going to the sauna three or four times a week, and between that and my occasional visits, the rhythm held.

What changed for the better was freedom. On the farm I could dress in feminine clothes from the moment I got up until I went to bed, and nobody rang the bell at odd hours or crossed my path in the hallway. I went out walking the paths in black leggings and a light blouse, and the only one who looked at me was some bird lost among the trees. I started buying clothes more carefully, looking for styles that would truly fit me well, not just grabbing whatever. I was past forty-five and didn’t want to dress like a teenager, but I also didn’t want to keep hiding who I was.

The style I liked best was straight skirts and simply cut dresses. But my lack of waist pushed me toward leggings and high-waisted pants, which framed my hips nicely and made the whole outfit make sense. Men’s underwear was left behind in a drawer I opened less and less. In its place: lingerie of different kinds, soft bras for days with no plans, more elaborate pieces for when I was expecting company. In winter, women’s stockings under my pants, like a small private ritual nobody needed to see.

Around that time I opened a blog. I posted photos and wrote about my experiences, without too many compromising details but with enough honesty that anyone who wanted to understand, could. I didn’t expect much from it; it was more a diary than a display case. But people started writing to me. Empty messages, occasional curiosity, some that ended in real encounters. And then Martín’s email arrived.

He wrote with his full first and last name from a work address, which was unusual enough already. He said he had seen my photos, that he liked them very much, that he’d be interested in getting in touch “if it wasn’t a bother.” I answered him, gave him my number, and the conversation moved to text messages. He was direct but not rude. He told me he lived an hour and a half away by car, that he was available Saturday mornings, and that if it suited me he could come the following weekend. I told him yes without quite believing he would show up.

He showed up.

He arrived on time, just as he had promised. I was waiting for him by the wooden gate, wearing snug shorts that outlined my ass nicely and a low-cut T-shirt that hinted at my bra. When I saw the car stop in front of the farm, I straightened up and waited.

The door opened and the first thing I saw were the crutches.

Martín got out of the car leaning on them with the ease of someone who’d been doing it for years. He looked at me while he adjusted himself. He must have seen something on my face, because he spoke before I could react:

—Is that a problem? —he asked calmly.

—No —I answered, and I meant it—. I was surprised. You hadn’t mentioned it.

—If you want, I’ll leave. —He paused for a second with the car door still open, as if the offer were genuine.

—Come down, please.

He walked toward the house at a steady pace, the crutches making a rhythmic sound on the dry earth. I went ahead thinking about the layout of the house, about whether any step was going to complicate things, about how we would organize what we had agreed on without ever quite saying it all the way.

We went in. He sat at the table. I offered him something cold and we chatted for a while while I poured him a glass of cold lemonade. He spoke calmly, with no visible nerves, as if he were arriving at a place he already knew. When I finished serving him, I stood near his chair. I moved slowly, knelt in front of him, and unzipped his fly.

I took him carefully out of his briefs and found him almost hard, thick, heavy in my hand. I grabbed him by the base and looked at him for a second before putting him in my mouth. His skin was warm, the glans shiny, and a clear drop was peeking out at the tip, which I licked before taking him in all the way. I started slowly, just the first inches, wetting him well with my tongue, covering his head with tight lips. Then I went lower, until I felt his cock touch the back of my throat. I stayed there a few seconds, breathing through my nose, swallowing around his dick so he could feel everything clench around him.

I heard him exhale long and slow. I started sucking him with rhythm, bobbing my head up and down, my hand taking care of what didn’t fit in my mouth. Every so often I pulled back and ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, licking his whole sac first on one side and then the other. I took him back to the hilt and made those little throat noises, those gurgles that drive men out of their minds. My saliva dripped down my chin, wetting his balls, and his thighs were hard as stone beneath me.

—You’re incredible —he said softly, his voice rough—. Let’s go to bed.

I stood up with my mouth still wet. He got up too, without help, even though I offered. “I can do it myself,” he said kindly but without hesitation. We walked the few meters to the bedroom.

I took off my T-shirt, bra, and shorts. I was left in a thong and thigh-high fishnets, because I knew he was going to look at me like that. He undressed sitting on the edge of the bed, unhurried, with the movements of someone who knows his own timing well. I watched him without looking away. His torso dipped on one side, his hips were slightly asymmetrical, his legs had the particular texture of someone who doesn’t use them the same way as everyone else. A body telling a different story, without hiding it. His cock, though, was standing up like a mast: long, thick, with an engorged head and a pronounced vein running from top to bottom. My mouth went dry again.

I lay down beside him and grabbed it again with my hand. I kissed him on the mouth, tongue to tongue, not closing it, and he kissed me back while he groped my back, squeezed my ass, slid a finger under my thong. He slowly shifted it aside, pulled the fabric out of the way and traced the pad of his finger around my hole, barely touching it, in circles. A moan slipped out against his mouth.

I went down his body nibbling his chest, his stomach, until I had him back between my lips. I sucked his cock again, now slower, with more spit, looking him in the eyes. He held the back of my neck without squeezing, just setting the rhythm. When I felt him close, I let him go with a kiss on the tip and grabbed the lubricant from the nightstand.

I put a good squirt on my fingers and reached back. I slid one in first, all the way, turning it slowly to open myself. Then two. I arched a little, breathing through my mouth, while he watched me with his hand on his cock, stroking it slowly so he wouldn’t come too soon. I handed him the bottle. He coated his cock well, from base to tip, and it was left shining.

I climbed on top of him, straddling him. I grabbed his cock with one hand, lined it up with my entrance, and started to lower myself. At first just the head, feeling the ring open around that thick tip. I held there for a second, breathing, and then kept going down little by little, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt the whole thing inside me, hitting me where it needed to hit. I braced my palms on his chest to keep my balance. He looked up at me from below with half-lidded eyes.

—That’s it —he said—. Just like that. Ride me.

I started moving. At first just a little, lifting a few centimeters and lowering myself again, getting used to having him inside me. Then more. I found the rhythm right away and started bouncing on his cock, feeling it go in and out, hitting me deep every time I sat all the way down. I searched for the angle that made me feel more, the one that touched me inside and made me clench my teeth. I found it quickly. Once I found it, I didn’t let go.

—Fuck —I told him, breathless—, you’re so good at this.

—Move it —he answered, grabbing my waist—. Move it for me.

I moved faster, leaning well onto his chest, my own cock hard and dripping between us. He had one hand on my hip, squeezing hard, and the other came up to my breast, pinched my nipple, twisted it just a little. I moaned louder and louder, with no shame at all, in the middle of the countryside where nobody was going to hear me. The bed creaked with every drop. My balls hit his stomach. I could feel his cock swelling even more inside me, throbbing, and I clenched it on purpose, closing my ass around him so he wouldn’t forget where he was buried.

We stayed like that a long while, changing rhythm, taking our time. Sometimes he stopped with his cock all the way in and made circles with his hips, grinding me against his pelvis. Other times I lifted myself almost enough to pull him out and then dropped back down hard, all my weight on him, with a guttural moan that came out without me thinking. I took his hand and brought it to my mouth; I sucked two fingers, got them nice and wet, and guided his other hand to my cock. He grabbed me and started jerking me off to the same rhythm I was riding him.

Then I shifted to one side, with his cock slipping out of my ass and a thread of lubricant dripping down. I turned him carefully onto his stomach and arranged him over the pillows, leaving his ass up high. I pulled his butt cheeks apart with both hands. His hole was pink, tight, with blond hairs around it. I laid myself on him and started licking him. I ran my tongue broadly first, from bottom to top, wetting him all over. Then I focused on the hole: I sucked it like it was a candy, teasing it, pressing it with my lips, pushing my tongue hard and deep inside.

He was moaning out loud, with no shame, his face in the pillow.

—Don’t stop —he told me—. Don’t stop, for fuck’s sake, don’t stop.

I opened him with my thumbs and pushed my tongue deeper, spitting inside, licking him all the way to his balls from behind. I bit one ass cheek, just a little. I soaked everything with saliva and slid a finger in while I kept sucking the rim. I felt him clench, felt him push his ass against my mouth looking for more.

When I turned him back onto his back, he was at the limit. His cock was bouncing against his stomach, red, taut, the tip soaked. I took it in my mouth without asking, grabbed the base with my hand and started sucking him fast, deep, without giving him a break. He grabbed my head with both hands and set the pace, pushing me down every time I came up. In just a few moves he came. Abundantly, forcefully, without warning. The first jet hit my palate; the next ones filled my mouth until some leaked from the corners. I took it all without moving, swallowed what I could, and then ran my tongue over the tip until it was clean.

When he was done, he wanted to return the favor. I thanked him, but that day I preferred to leave it at that. I had come too, while riding him, without even touching myself much, and my stomach was sticky against his hip.

—Next time —he said, still breathing hard—. And I want to put it in you too, if you’re versatile.

—No problem —I replied—. Today wasn’t the moment.

—Will there be a next time?

—Depends on you.

He showered alone, dressed with the same calm with which he had undressed, took his crutches, and walked to the door. I walked him to the gate. We said goodbye with a handshake that lasted two seconds longer than necessary.

He came back the following month. And the one after that. And the one after that. For three years, Martín appeared at the gate once a month, with the punctuality of a work commitment. Over time we stopped needing many words to agree on what we were going to do. Sometimes he brought something to eat, other times he arrived just on time, and he always stayed exactly as long as he should. The dynamic adjusted itself: some mornings I fucked him, taking him all the way in while he begged for more with his face in the pillow; other times it was my turn to spread my legs and take him until he filled my ass with cum. Always without hurry and without questions that didn’t matter.

***

The farm remained that space I didn’t have anywhere else: the place where I could be exactly who I wanted to be, wearing whatever I wanted, at any hour. I received other men that year. Never fewer than three a week. But what I enjoyed most was Tuesday mornings, when the boys were at school and I went out walking the paths in leggings, blouse, and fishnets, without anyone looking at me strangely or my having to explain anything.

After almost a year, I decided to move back to the city. It wasn’t for any specific reason. It was more of an accumulation of sensations: the farm had given me the peace I needed, but that peace was starting to feel too much like confinement. I was staying inside more and more when I used to like going out. I needed movement, people, the adrenaline of walking at night through an unfamiliar neighborhood.

I found a downtown apartment full of light. Spacious, with three wardrobes: two for women’s clothes, one for the little that remained of men’s clothing. The drawers, packed with lingerie of every kind. On the nightstand, the only masculine thing I kept: cotton underwear for days with no plans.

In the city the pace picked up again. Sometimes a woman stayed over too. I always told them in advance what my life was like at home; some left, others were intrigued in a way they couldn’t quite hide. Men, on the other hand, got hard as soon as they crossed the threshold from the lingerie alone: they groped me over my panties before saying hello, shoved their hands inside my bra, made me kneel in the hallway to suck them off with their jackets still on. I once had three different visits within the span of two hours on a winter Saturday: one after another, ass lubricated and mouth never closing, taking three loads in a row without getting out of bed.

Martín kept coming. Not to the farm anymore, but now into the city. Just as punctual, just as direct. I never knew his whole story, and I didn’t need to. I had learned that what mattered wasn’t what each person brought with them when they came through the door, but what happened when we were in the same room and there was nothing left to say.