I Dressed as a Woman in the Woods and He Discovered Me

I like dressing as a woman. It’s not just the clothes: it’s what the clothes awaken in me. Lace brushing my skin, the cool weight of the short skirt over my thighs, the tickle of the stockings as I pull them up slowly, centimeter by centimeter. In those minutes I stop being who I am for the rest of the day and become Lucía. I walk differently, breathe differently. I want to be looked at as a woman. I want to be desired as a woman. And, deep down, I want someone to take me like a woman, to spread my legs and fuck me like a female in heat.

That’s why I chose that spot. An old pine grove atop a cliff, far from the village, where the forest suddenly opened onto the sea. I’d come by car along a dirt road and walked a little farther, until I reached a clearing I knew from before. No one ever went there. Or so I wanted to believe.

I had everything in a backpack: the short wine-colored dress, the garter stockings, a black lingerie set I’d taken my time deciding to buy, and low heels so I wouldn’t break an ankle among the roots. I laid it all out on a flat rock and began to undress under the afternoon sun.

The September air raised gooseflesh on my skin. I dressed slowly, like a ritual, feeling each garment transform me. First the panties, then the stockings, fastening each one to the garter with slightly clumsy fingers. The bra. The dress, which slid over my body with a sigh of fabric. I liked doing it outdoors. I liked the risk of being seen, the wind stroking the backs of my knees, the light slipping through the branches and drawing shadows over my skin.

I felt desirable. Provocative. For once, complete.

I leaned against a thick pine, took out a hand mirror, and began painting my lips a deep red. I looked at myself: my hair falling to one side, my cheekbones flushed by the cold, my mouth glossy. This is me, I thought. This is Lucía.

And then I heard it.

A crackling among the dry leaves, behind me.

I froze, lipstick halfway to my mouth. It wasn’t an animal. Animals don’t stop in mid-step. This was someone walking carefully, who had gone still the moment he realized I’d heard him.

I turned slowly.

He was there, about ten meters away, leaning one shoulder against another tree. A tall man in his late thirties, wearing a light jacket and with his hands in his pockets. I don’t know how long he’d been watching. Long enough, I supposed, because he didn’t seem surprised by anything he saw. His gaze moved over every curve, every detail of my clothes, every part of me I had chosen to show. He paused for a moment on my thighs, another on my cleavage, and I noticed a bulge forming in his trousers without any attempt on his part to hide it.

He said nothing. Neither did I.

The sensible thing would have been to cover myself, grab the backpack, run off. But I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. Feeling those eyes on me was exactly what I’d come to the forest for, though I would never have admitted it out loud. I felt a warm tug between my legs, a sudden wetness that soaked the lace of my panties before he even took a single step.

He pushed off the tree and came closer, unhurried, measuring each step. When he reached me, he smelled of tobacco and something clean, like soap. He looked me in the eyes for a second, as if asking permission he never put into words.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just stay like that.”

I swallowed and barely nodded.

His hand went straight to my waist. He turned me firmly, without roughness, until I was facing the trunk. I rested my palms on the rough bark. I felt his body press against mine from behind, his chest against my shoulder blades, his hot breath sweeping my neck. His cock stood hard against my ass, separated from my skin only by the fabric of his trousers and the fine flare of my skirt, and with a slow movement of his hips he rubbed it up and down against me, letting me know what was coming.

“I’d been watching you for a while,” he said in a low voice, almost in my ear. “I thought you were alone. I was just about to take mine out and jerk off looking at you, you know?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” I replied, and my own voice sounded strange to me, higher, more surrendered. “Do it. Do to me what you were going to do to yourself.”

He chuckled softly against my neck and bit my earlobe. His free hand slid down my side, followed the line of my hip, and slipped under the hem of my skirt. He raised it slowly, wrinkling the fabric against my skin, until the back of my thighs, sheathed in stockings, was exposed. He groped my ass fully over the lace, squeezing me, spreading my cheeks with his open palm, feeling every curve as if he were measuring me.

I moaned. Softly, but clearly. A sound I couldn’t hold back.

“I like that,” he whispered. “That you like being touched like that, like a well-dressed whore.”

The word went straight through me and instead of offending me, it tightened my nipples inside the bra. He stroked me first over the lace, with his whole palm, feeling the shape of my body beneath the thin fabric. Then he pulled the garment aside, not taking it off completely, and his fingers touched me without barriers, wet with his own saliva, hot, sure. He opened me with two fingers and found how soaked I was, and let out an approving grunt against the back of my neck.

“Is this how you like it, Lucía? Dripping for a stranger in the woods?”

I didn’t answer with words. I arched my back and pushed back, offering myself, and that was all the answer he needed. His fingers entered me with a wet snap, one first, then two, curving inside, searching for the spot that made me bite the air. He fucked me with his hand slowly, pulling them out shining, pushing them back in to the knuckles, while his thumb pressed my clit in short, precise circles.

“You’re opening up on your own,” he said, almost surprised. “Look at you. You’re almost coming just from this.”

And it was true. A long shiver kept slipping through my thighs, a sign, a warning. He noticed it and pulled his fingers out just in time, leaving me empty, panting against the trunk, legs parted and ass lifted like a bitch begging.

He yanked my garment down until it hung at knee height. I was gasping against the trunk, my nails dug into the bark, my legs trembling inside the stockings. I heard him unzip his trousers, take himself out, spit into his hand, and smear his cock from top to bottom. Then he fished something out of his pocket, tore open a wrapper, and put on the condom in two quick movements. I silently appreciated that he was that careful.

“Relax,” he said. “Slowly.”

And even so, when he entered me, he did it all at once, deep, firm, forcing his way in until I felt his balls slap against my pussy from behind. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry out. He noticed and put his hand over my mouth, not to silence me completely, but to hold the sound between his fingers. He filled me completely. His cock felt thick, hot, pushing me against the bark each time he drove it all the way in.

The first thrusts were slow, letting me get used to the burn. Pulling almost all the way out, leaving the tip grazing me, and then driving back into me to the hilt with a small grunt of satisfaction. After that, the rhythm became deeper, more determined. He shoved me against the tree as if he wanted to fuse me with the wood. The bark scraped my nipples through the dress and I didn’t care. I let him. I opened myself. I surrendered without reservation, my cheek pressed to the bark and the red of my lipstick already smudged from the friction.

“You’re so tight,” he panted, gripping my hips with both hands. “You’re made for this, aren’t you? All dressed up, out in the hills, with your stockings on.”

“Yes,” I moaned. “Fuck me. Fuck me harder.”

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to me in the woods. It was only the second. But this time, I knew right away, I wanted more.

***

His hands held my hips and set a rhythm that didn’t ask permission. Deeper and harder each time. I felt his sweaty chest against my back, his broken breathing mixing with the distant murmur of the sea breaking against the rocks down below. Every thrust tore another moan from me, sharper, more shameless. The wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of me filled the whole clearing, and I didn’t care if the seagulls or the wind heard it.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips against my nape. “Dressed, desired, hidden in the woods for me. With my cock inside you. All mine.”

The words ran through my entire body. I could only moan, face against the trunk, stockings slipped down, dress bunched at the waist, feeling more Lucía than ever. He slid a hand into my cleavage, pulled one breast out over the bra, and pinched my nipple between two fingers, tugging it back each time he drove forward. The small pain blended with the pleasure until I could no longer tell them apart.

He lifted one leg, setting my foot on an exposed root, and the angle changed. The thrust reached me deeper, fuller. Now he was touching a place inside me that made white spots burst before my eyes. My thighs trembled. I no longer knew whether what I felt was pure pleasure or the exact edge where pleasure starts to hurt, and I didn’t want him to stop on either side.

“Do you like being taken like this?” he asked in my ear, his voice broken by effort. “Being wanted exactly as you are? Being fucked by a stranger against a tree like a horny slut?”

“Yes,” I panted. “More. Break me.”

He pulled out of me all at once and turned me against the trunk, now facing him. He looked into my eyes for a second, his cock gleaming between us, and crouched down. He opened my skirt with both hands, pulled my panties aside, and buried his face between my legs without warning. His tongue went straight to my clit, with broad, hot, insistent licks. He licked my lips completely, shoved his tongue deep inside, devoured me as if he were hungry. I threw my head back against the bark and buried a hand in his hair, holding him, dictating the rhythm.

“Like that, like that, don’t stop,” I begged him.

He looked up from below, his mouth shining with me, and smiled without stopping licking. He stood slowly, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and turned me back against the tree. He slipped two fingers between my lips and made me suck them, and that gesture, that little sweet humiliation, was what finally broke me. He pulled his fingers out, shining with saliva, and slammed himself back into me to the hilt, and with the first thrust I was already coming, trembling all over, mouth open, mind blank, eyes shut against the bark. My pussy clenched around his cock in long spasms, one after another, while a hoarse cry escaped through his fingers. The whole forest seemed to turn around me.

He didn’t stop. He kept going, deeper, wilder, chasing his own ending with long thrusts that jolted me against the tree. Every slam of his hips against my ass made a dry crack of skin on skin. He grabbed my hair, threw my head back, and spoke in my ear with a voice already shattered.

“I’m going to come,” he growled. “Inside. Tell me where.”

“Inside,” I panted. “Come inside, I want to feel it.”

I felt him tense, hold his breath, dig his fingers into my hip, and then give one last long, deep thrust while a heavy groan spilled from his throat. His cock throbbed inside me in short bursts, one, two, three, each one accompanied by a spasm against my back. He stayed inside for a moment, still, vibrating, his forehead pressed to the back of my neck, before gradually relaxing.

We stayed like that for a few seconds, his forehead on my shoulder, both our ragged breaths mingling with the wind. I felt him soften inside me before he withdrew carefully, with one last gasp. Then he moved away gently, not with the roughness I had feared. He let go of my hip and stepped back. He took off the condom, tied it off, and tucked it into a handkerchief in his pocket. Not even that did he do without care.

“Thank you,” he said, and he sounded sincere.

I finally turned around. His shirt was stuck to his chest and he wore a crooked, almost shy smile for someone who had been holding me against a tree minutes earlier. He straightened his clothes, pulled up his zipper, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at me one last time, from head to toe, as if storing the image away. He paused an extra second on my red-smeared mouth and on the thread of saliva and fluid running down the inside of my thigh over the stocking.

“I don’t usually come this way,” he added. “I’m glad I did today.”

“So am I,” I replied, and it was true.

He disappeared among the pines the way he had come, without looking back, and the sound of his steps faded until only the sea remained. I stayed leaning against the trunk, catching my breath, my body still vibrating with every heartbeat, my pussy swollen and pulsing in time with my heart. The dress wrinkled, the stockings slipped down, the makeup a mess.

I fixed myself slowly, the same way I had dressed: like a ritual. I wiped between my thighs with a tissue, pulled my stockings back up, smoothed my skirt, picked up the mirror that had fallen among the leaves. I painted my lips again, looking at myself in the reflection, and the woman who looked back at me was tousled and radiant.

As I put the clothes away in the backpack, I promised myself I would come back. Not for him; I’d probably never see him again, and that was fine. I would come back for this: for the woods, for the risk, for the feeling of being, even if only for a stolen while between the trees and the sea, exactly who I wanted to be.