A Bride Awoke the Tranny Inside Her

This year marks eleven years since I first went out dressed as a woman, and almost thirty since I realized that I like men as much as I like women. By day I’m a notary, I wear gray suits, and I sign deeds with a pen my father gave me. By night, sometimes, I’m someone else. I paint my lips, I put on an expensive chestnut-brown wig, and I go out to be looked at. And there is no feeling in the world quite like it.

Many people think this comes from a wound, from trauma, from something broken that needs to be repaired. In my case it was exactly the opposite. It was born of desire, and it was born of Renata.

I met her when I was a little over thirty and she was barely twenty-two. She was a graphic designer, wore her hair short, and had a laugh that made heads turn in any bar in Querétaro. I fell in love like an adolescent, with the awkwardness of men who have spent too many years alone behind a desk.

One night, after fucking until we ran out of breath, she stayed looking at me with a smile I still remember. My semen was still running down her thigh and her hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat.

“You’ve got better legs than I do,” she told me, while she stroked the inside of my thigh with a fingernail.

I laughed, thinking it was a game. It wasn’t. Her hand slid down to my cock, still wet from her, wrapped around it with her fingers, and squeezed slowly, as if measuring something. I felt it harden again almost instantly.

“And this might taste better too, if you knew how to use it,” she murmured, and she bent down to lick the tip with her tongue flattened, very slowly, never taking her eyes off me. She took my cock all the way into her mouth in a single motion, until I could feel her throat closing around the head. I came in less than two minutes, my hands sunk in her short hair, and she swallowed everything without breaking eye contact. Then she wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, sucked it, and smiled.

***

Renata started little by little, like someone probing mined ground. First it was a nail polish she painted on me one Sunday afternoon, laughing while we watched a movie. I kept it on for two days before taking it off, afraid someone at the notary office might notice. Then came a lipstick she put on me one dawn, in front of the bathroom mirror, standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders.

“Look at yourself,” she whispered in my ear. “Don’t tell me you don’t like what you see.”

And the truth was that I did like it. I liked it more than I was willing to admit. She felt in my breathing what I was too ashamed to confess. She slid one hand down my chest, my belly, and squeezed my cock through my pants. It was already hard.

“I can see this one likes it too,” she told me, smiling at me in the reflection.

She pulled my pants down to my knees right there, in front of the mirror, and made me watch myself while she jerked me off with her hand, very slowly, her lips painted bright red, parted beside my ear. She made me keep my eyes open even when I came. I saw my own made-up face, the mouth twisted with pleasure, the cum splashing in white jets against the tile, and I didn’t recognize the person moaning in the mirror. But I liked it.

We bought things together, like two accomplices. A pair of black leggings, some stockings, a padded bra that fit me surprisingly well. We’d go into stores and she’d pretend everything was for her, even when the size didn’t fit her. The saleswoman would look at us with one eyebrow raised and my cheeks would burn. That shame, I discovered, was part of the pleasure.

The first time I dressed completely was in her apartment. She put me in a short skirt, a tight blouse, stockings, the lowest heels she could find so I wouldn’t fall. She made me up for almost an hour, in silence, concentrated as if she were painting a picture. When she was done, she turned me toward the full-length mirror.

I didn’t fully recognize the person looking back at me. And yet, for the first time in a long while, I felt like I recognized myself.

“Hello,” I said to my reflection, in a voice I hadn’t known I had.

Renata hugged me from behind, ran her hands over the fabric of the skirt, and kissed my neck. She slowly lifted the skirt higher and higher until my ass was bare, barely covered by the black lace panties she herself had put on me a while earlier.

“Do you see what I see?” she asked, while she stroked my ass cheeks with both hands.

That night she laid me face down on her bed, with the skirt hiked up at my waist and the heels still on. She pulled my panties down to the backs of my knees and stayed there a while, looking at me like that, offered up. Then I felt her tongue between my butt cheeks, licking my ass with a calm that made my whole body tremble. No one had ever done that to me. I had never imagined you could desire something so intensely without even knowing it existed. She pried me open with her thumbs and slid her tongue deep inside, sucking me, soaking me, until a sharp little moan escaped me, almost feminine, one I didn’t even recognize as mine.

Then she turned me over, took the vibrator out of the drawer, and sat astride my face. I ate her pussy while she shoved it up my ass, very slowly, twisting it, looking at me the way you look at someone who is transforming. I came without touching my cock, cum running down my belly and onto the skirt, and she didn’t stop until I licked the last drop sliding down her thighs.

Something had opened inside me, a door I would no longer be able to close.

***

What we had didn’t last. The age difference ended up weighing more than the desire, and one day she moved to another city for a job. I cried like I had never cried before. But she left me a gift that no later love could take away: she had shown me who I was when I let my hair down, in both the literal and figurative senses.

The first time I went out alone dressed as a woman was months later. I got ready for hours. I chose a discreet black dress, stockings, a chestnut wig, and a pair of heels I already knew how to handle on the carpet in my apartment. I looked at myself in the mirror one last time, took a deep breath, and went down to the building’s parking garage with my heart trying to burst out of my chest.

My legs were shaking. Every step on the pavement sounded like a drum. I walked to a brightly lit avenue, far from my neighborhood, where no one could recognize me. And then the thing I feared so much and wanted so badly happened: a group of men in a car rolled down the window.

“Nice walk, gorgeous!” one of them shouted.

Another whistled. A third yelled that he wanted to fuck me deep and see me cry, and that filthy line ran down my back like an electric current and settled between my legs.

I didn’t feel offended. I felt seen. For the first time in my life, someone was looking at the woman I hid and desiring her. I quickened my pace, went into a café so my heart would calm down, and in the reflection of the glass I caught myself smiling like an idiot, with the fake pussy I wore stuffed into my panties still throbbing.

***

From then on, it was all discovery. I learned there was an entire world I had never had access to, a world of discreet bars, private parties, men who were looking for exactly what I was.

The first one was named Aldo, or at least that’s what he told me his name was. I met him in a bar where people like me went. He was tall, with big hands, and he looked at me all night from the bar before working up the nerve to buy me a drink. We talked about banal things while the tension between us grew like a rope pulled taut.

“Do you come here often?” he asked.

“It’s my third time,” I admitted.

“You can tell you’re new. You’ve got that look like you’re about to bolt.”

I laughed, because he was right. But I didn’t run. That night we ended up at a nearby hotel, one of those places that charge by the hour and ask no questions.

As soon as he shut the door, he slammed me against the wall and pushed his tongue into my mouth with a force that made me lose my balance on the heels. He groped my fake breasts through the dress, then yanked it down off my shoulders and left my padded tits bare. He didn’t care. He bent down and bit my fake nipples as if they were real, and for me, in that moment, they were.

I knelt in front of him in the room with the lights half-dim. I lowered the zipper of his pants with a calm I didn’t know I had and freed his cock, thick, hard, pointed at my face. When I took it in my mouth, Aldo let out a long sigh that made me feel more powerful than I had ever felt signing a deed. I tasted him slowly, first with my tongue circling the head, then taking him all the way in until the tip touched my throat and tears slipped out on their own, smearing my mascara down my cheeks.

That night I discovered I loved sucking cock. Not out of obligation or to please: I genuinely liked it. I liked the control you feel when you’re on your knees, the paradox of having a big man completely at your mercy with nothing but your tongue and lips. I liked the weight of a cock in my mouth, the salty taste of pre-cum on the tip of my tongue, the way his veins swelled when I sucked him faster and squeezed his balls with my fingers.

“Look at me, whore,” Aldo growled, grabbing my wig with both hands.

I lifted my eyes without taking him out of my mouth and that look was enough. He started fucking my mouth at his own rhythm, pushing my head against his pelvis, not letting me pull away. I gagged a couple of times, saliva ran down my chin to my fake tits, and still I didn’t stop him. When he was about to come he yanked his cock out of my mouth and finished on my face, in two, three thick spurts that landed on my eyelids, my lips, my cheek. I stayed on my knees, eyes closed, smiling, feeling his load sliding down my neck to my neckline.

But Aldo wasn’t finished. He lifted me by the armpits, laid me face down on the bed, and ripped off my panties in one tug. He slicked his fingers with saliva and shoved them up my ass, one first, then two, finding the exact spot that made me writhe. When I was ready, he entered me in one thrust, gripping my hips, not giving me a break. I screamed into the pillow. The heels dug into the mattress, the skirt a mess around my waist, the wig crooked over my forehead. He fucked me for what felt like an eternity, changing my position two, three times, until I ended up riding him, my hands braced on his chest, rising and falling on his cock while he pinched my fake nipples and called me whore and princess in the same sentence. He came inside me, squeezing my hips so hard I had his fingerprints the next day. I came a second later, without touching myself, my own cock dripping cum against his belly.

When we were done, Aldo lay there staring at the ceiling, still catching his breath. I sat beside him and fixed my lipstick in the wall mirror, because it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, even though his semen was still running between my ass cheeks. He watched me with a mix of disbelief and desire.

“I didn’t expect you to be like this,” he said.

“Like what?” I asked, never stopping looking at myself.

“So confident. I thought I’d have to hold your hand.”

I laughed. If he knew the life I led by day, the serious, formal man who signed important documents, he would never have believed it. But I didn’t tell him anything. That’s one of the rules I learned early on: each version of me lives in its own compartment, and they never mix.

***

As the years went by, I got bolder. What at first terrified me, later made me laugh, and in the end made me feel pleasure. I kissed men on the dance floor in front of everyone. I was with two at once, one night when things went completely off-script and the three of us ended up tangled together until dawn.

That night is one of the ones I remember in the greatest detail. One was named Ramiro and the other Julio; they’d been friends forever and made it very clear as soon as we went up to the apartment that they intended to share me without shame. They knelt me between them on the living room rug and took their cocks out at the same time. I went from one to the other, sucking one first, then the other, squeezing their balls with my hands, letting them slap my cheeks with their hard cocks. Then Ramiro took me to the sofa, sat me astride him, and fucked me in the ass while Julio, standing in front of me, shoved his into my mouth. They fucked me like that, sandwich-style, for a long time, until I was hoarse from moaning. They took turns: first one inside, then the other, without giving me any respite. They both came almost at the same time, Julio on my face and Ramiro deep in my ass, and they made me stay still while they took photos of me with their phones, covered in cum, wig crooked, makeup smeared, smiling at them like a grateful whore.

I tried golden shower one dawn with a man I met at a party, kneeling in the bathtub with my mouth open, and discovered that transgression has its own flavor. I did crazy things I wouldn’t tell at a family dinner, but which I keep like little private treasures. Each one taught me something about myself, about where my limits were and, above all, where they weren’t.

Once I had to deliver some documents to a courthouse, dressed as a woman, because I was coming from a night out and didn’t have time to change. I crossed the marble corridor with my heels echoing among the suited lawyers, feeling every stare pinned to me, and with my ass still sore and slick from the man who had fucked me two hours earlier in the back seat of his car. My heart was pounding like a runaway horse. And yet, when I left the building, I realized that what I had felt wasn’t humiliation but a secret, delicious euphoria.

***

The highest moment of all these years was the Pride march. The first time I went as a spectator, hidden in the crowd. The second time, I worked up the nerve to march. I dressed up like never before, in a fitted dress and makeup that took me two hours, and walked down the main avenue among thousands of people who were applauding, shouting, and celebrating.

At one point, a TV camera stopped in front of me. The reporter asked me something I didn’t even hear because I was so nervous, and all I managed was to smile and blow a kiss into the air. That night, my made-up face appeared on the news for a few seconds. No one recognized me, of course: the notary in the gray suit and the woman on screen seemed like two different people. And in a way they were.

That night I sat in my living room, still dressed, with my makeup halfway removed, and thought about Renata. About the girlfriend who, one ordinary Sunday, painted my nails while laughing. I owed her all of this. I owed her for introducing me to the person who had lived hidden inside me for far too long. I slipped my hand under my skirt, stroked my hard cock thinking about her mouth, her tongue, the first time she licked my ass with my heels on, and made myself come right there, alone on the sofa, mascara streaking down my cheeks.

***

Today I still live my double life, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. I have lovers who know only one of my two versions and coworkers who would never imagine the other. Sometimes, in the middle of a boring meeting, I remember one of my nights — a cock in my throat, cum running down my back, fingers prying my ass cheeks apart in a bar bathroom — and I have to bite my lip not to smile.

I’m not writing this in search of approval or scandal. I’m writing it because there are many like me, sitting behind a desk, with an entire world locked away, waiting for someone to tell them what Renata told me in front of that mirror. Look at yourself. Don’t tell me you don’t like what you see.

I’ll keep telling my adventures little by little. There are many, and each one deserves its own night. For now I’ll say goodbye, take off my wig, put away the heels, and go back to being, until the next escape, the serious man in the gray suit who signs deeds with his father’s pen.

But the woman in the mirror is always there, waiting, with her lips painted and her legs open. And I’ve already learned not to keep her waiting too long.