Oral

She came to my house with two beers and a story she needed to get out: the night she realized she loved giving up control completely.

For years his wife called me “the mistress.” But I never was. I was his sex worker, and this is the truth she never wanted to hear.

I’m finally writing it down: what turns me on is being the anonymous little faggot of a married man, kneeling without knowing his name and him not knowing mine either. That’s it. Over and over.

They had spent weeks trying to meet. When they finally closed the car door, the parking lot faded away and there were no more excuses to pretend they were only friends.

That night I left my children asleep, dressed like a secretary, and went down to the parking lot trembling. I was going to stand on a corner and wait for customers.

I pulled out my cock pretending to piss under the tree, waiting to see whether that stranger would dare come closer in the park’s dim light.

We had whispered about it a thousand times and I never believed it would happen. But that night she knelt in the middle of the room and all I could do was sit and watch.

We agreed to meet through the app in twenty minutes. I never imagined that that same night a stranger would decide what my body did and whom I gave it to.

I turn off the light, open the story, and let my hand drift down. In my head there’s always someone in the corner of the room, watching, waiting to come in.

They put the blue ribbon around my neck, the only one different from the rest, and I walked down those stairs knowing those six men would discover what I was hiding.

My mother got up from the chair, kissed me on the mouth, and without saying a word slid her hand under my pajamas. Only then did I understand what my parents had agreed to during the night.

Marcos let me go in first, like a gentleman with a crooked smile. Inside, on some planks, two strangers were looking at me, their hands already at their zippers.

There were no doors, no windows, no tomorrow. Only her and me in that white room, and a heat between us that no longer made sense to deny.

I’d spent weeks imagining myself in women’s clothes. That night I put on the red strap lingerie, took a photo, and waited for someone to text me something forbidden.

I thought I had the situation under control. I thought an old man with no strength couldn’t do anything to me. That was my first mistake of the morning.

When everyone fell asleep, Diego stayed next to me in bed. He said he wasn’t sure whether he liked men. What happened next was planned by neither of us.

I had tried it before and felt nothing but pain. That night, in a hotel room with a stranger, I discovered how wrong I had been.

I walked to the park sucking on a lollipop, my skirt so short the cool air brushed me, knowing anyone who passed by could see me.

I watched her fold sheets in those light-colored leggings and prayed she wouldn’t notice the bulge in my shorts. Then one day she turned and asked why I was looking at her like that.