I Gave the Town Tranny a Ride

I’m a mature man, with big hands and a deep voice, the kind people in the village greet loudly and slap on the back. I’ve been married for years, and no one would ever suspect what I’m about to tell you. Because in secret, when the house is empty, I like to put on some soft garment, feel silk against my skin, and, for a while, stop being who everyone thinks I am.

I never had a relationship with another man. Only fantasies. Only desires I learned to hide very well.

I’m telling you how it all began, because there was one exact day when it stopped being a fantasy.

When I was young, I used to sneak off to see drag shows in the city. I’d sit in the back row, in the dim light, watching them get themselves ready with a femininity that left me breathless. The way they crossed their legs, the shine of stockings under the lights, that deep voice coming out of painted lips. I’d go home with my pulse racing and imagine stroking those legs wrapped in silk, over and over, with my cock hard in my hand, until I came like a teenager and collapsed exhausted on the sheets.

Then I got married. Life dragged me into work, routine, bills to pay. And I buried all that so deep I came to believe it had died.

It hadn’t died. It was only waiting.

***

It was a scorching afternoon. I was driving home alone in my car on the road that connects my village with the county seat, a strip of cracked asphalt bordered by dry fields. I had the window down, my elbow outside, not thinking about anything. I stopped at the gas station at the exit, one of those old ones with a single pump and a dog sleeping in the shade.

And there she was.

Standing by the wall, in a short burgundy dress and dark stockings climbing over long legs. It was Marisol, a well-known drag queen from the area; everybody knew who she was, even if no one said it out loud. She had that studied femininity, every gesture measured, and when she saw me get out to pay, she came toward me, her heels clicking on the cement.

—Good afternoon —she said, and held out her hand.

I shook it out of politeness. Her skin was warm and soft, and I swear I felt something like an electric current run up my arm. I let go too quickly, as if I’d been burned, and she noticed. She gave the slightest smile.

—You heading to the village? —she asked—. I’m stranded here.

—Yes, I’m going that way —I answered, and my voice came out rougher than usual—. Get in, I’ll take you.

I paid for the gas without looking at the amount. When I got back to the car, she was already settled in the passenger seat, her bag on her knees and a strand of hair falling across her face.

***

I started off slowly. Slower than necessary, really.

—Sorry you’re seeing me like this —she said, and her voice cracked a little—. I came with a guy and he ditched me. Got all offended.

I glanced at her sideways. Her eyes were a little red, shining, as if she’d been on the verge of tears.

—Why did he get upset? —I asked, just to keep hearing her talk.

—Because he says he didn’t know what I was. —She let out a bitter laugh—. I’d been telling him from the start. But we went out, we kissed, I grabbed him over his pants, and suddenly he remembered he had dignity and dumped me on the roadside. Cowardly motherfucker. He got hard as a rock in my hand and then got scared of himself.

I drove slower and slower, stretching out the miles as if I could stop time. The road was empty. Just the two of us, the engine purring low, and her perfume filling the cabin.

—He didn’t deserve you —I said—. You’ll find someone who’ll really love you.

And then I did something I hadn’t planned. I took one hand off the wheel and rested it on her knee, over the stocking, in a gesture meant to be comforting and which we both knew wasn’t.

I didn’t take it away.

The feel of that taut stocking over her skin gave me an immediate erection, hard, almost painful against my pants. My cock swelled all at once, settled crookedly against the fly, and I felt it throbbing with every beat of my heart. She looked down at my hand, then up into my eyes, and said nothing. She only breathed a little deeper, and a barely-there smile curved her painted lips.

***

I had to stop. I told her I needed to piss, though it was a lie; I needed a second to breathe, to think about whether I was really going to do what my body was begging me to do. I got out onto the shoulder, stood there for a moment looking at the dry fields with my cock jammed inside my pants, and went back to the car without having decided anything.

When I sat down, she had repainted her lips. A deep red, freshly applied, glossy, lush, made to leave a mark.

—Thanks for listening to me —she murmured.

And she leaned in. Slowly, giving me all the time in the world to pull away. But I didn’t pull away. Her lips touched mine in a wet, soft kiss, and I felt the lipstick sticking to mine, leaving her mark. It was the most delicate kiss I’d been given in years, and a thousand things flashed through my head at once: my wife, my house, the village, everything I stood to lose.

But my hand didn’t move from her leg. On the contrary: it started to climb.

The kiss opened. She slipped her tongue between my lips, slowly, searching for mine, and when she found it she wound around it as if she knew exactly what I’d been missing for years. She tasted of mint and cigarettes. I bit her lower lip, that thick painted lip, and drew a soft moan out of her that went straight down to my groin. I could feel the tip of my cock getting wet inside my underwear.

We broke apart for a moment and her gaze held mine, dark and steady. She let out a low breath. Now it was both my hands roaming her legs, from knee to thigh, feeling every inch of that taut stocking beneath my palms. She turned toward me in the seat, lifted one leg and crossed it over mine, in the little space left between my belly and the steering wheel. The dress rode up to her hip and beneath the dark pantyhose I could see the bulging shadow of her cock pressed against the fabric, nothing else beneath it.

I took off one shoe carefully and caressed her foot over the stocking, the instep, the ankle. She was staring at me without blinking, and her breathing filled the silence in the car.

—Touch me higher —she whispered—. Don’t play dumb. I saw your cock harden as soon as I shook your hand.

***

I couldn’t help it. My hand slipped under the hem of her dress and, beneath the pantyhose, I found her hardness. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Nothing between the fabric and her skin.

I wrapped my hand around her through the stocking. It was big, firm, thick, and for one absurd second I compared myself to it and felt small in every sense. The head bulged against the synthetic fabric, stretching it tight, and with my thumb I brushed the glans through the pantyhose. She shuddered all over. When I squeezed her gently along her length, she let out a long sigh and threw her head back, leaning against the window glass with her eyes closed. I felt something warm and wet staining my fingers through the fabric: the first drop of precum starting to soak the stocking.

It was an invitation, and I accepted it.

I stroked her slowly, up and down, feeling her grow even more in my hand, feel her go hard as iron. I worked her cock over the pantyhose, up and down, squeezing the glans every time I reached the tip, feeling it swell and pulse beneath my fingers. The moisture spread through the fabric, and with each pass my hand slid better, almost as if I’d anointed it with oil.

—Just like that, daddy, just like that —she gasped, in that deep beautiful voice of hers—. Shake it good, don’t let go.

There were no more words. Only her sighs, the occasional muffled moan, the noise of the idling engine and my own quickened breathing. Seeing her like that, surrendered to pleasure, lips parted and hair stuck to her forehead, her breasts pressed against the dress neckline rising and falling, had me on the edge without anyone even touching me. I grabbed my own cock for a second over my pants with my free hand, squeezing it so I wouldn’t come too.

The other man had turned her on and left her half-finished. I understood right away, because it didn’t take long. She started rocking her hips against my fist, pushing her cock into my closed hand, fucking my fingers through the stocking. I sped up, shook her faster, gripping her whole shaft, and she began to let out guttural moans, almost masculine, very much her own, that voice I remembered from the shows of my youth.

—I’m gonna come… ah, I’m gonna come —she panted, arching her whole body.

With a deep, drawn-out moan, she started spilling into the pantyhose. I felt the first hot spurts burst against the fabric and soak my palm, then another and another, warm semen running between my fingers, sliding down my wrist, sneaking inside the cuff of my shirt. Her cock kept throbbing in my hand, expelling the last of its load in spasms, and I didn’t ease up for a second, milking her dry to the very last drop as if I knew exactly what I was doing.

I didn’t pull my hand away until I felt I’d squeezed her completely empty.

***

—The stocking’s rubbing me raw —she murmured, still agitated, her chest rising in short gasps.

And now, not caring about anything, I put my hand inside the pantyhose. I tore it a little with my thumb forcing the hem. I smeared my fingers in her wetness, felt the warm slippery skin of her cock still half-hard, the thick cum covering it completely, the hair around it matted down, the heavy hot balls against my palm when I went a little lower. I took her shaft directly in hand, skin against skin, and with my thumb I wiped the last drop from the glans. The throbbing was slowly calming.

—Forgive me —she said at last, opening her eyes, her gaze clouded—. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d spent the whole afternoon with my balls swollen because of that son of a bitch.

—It’s okay —I answered, and I meant it—. Seeing you like that was beautiful. Cumming for me.

—Next time I’ll suck you off —she whispered, licking her painted lips—. Look at how hard you’ve got it, poor thing.

And she ran her hand over my pants, squeezing my hard cock along its full length, measuring it with her fingers, smiling with satisfaction at how swollen I was because of her. She gave the tip a slow squeeze, right where the fabric was darkened by my own wetness, and ripped a rough groan out of me.

—Save it for me —she said—. Next time.

She took a tiny garment from her bag and dried my hand with a tenderness that melted me, passing the fabric between each finger, wiping the semen from the back of my hand and my wrist. Then she leaned in and gave me another kiss, soft, grateful, tongue inside. She finished cleaning herself too inside the pantyhose, straightened her dress, folded the stained garment, and offered it to me with a wide smile.

I took it almost by reflex. But before I could close my fingers, she pulled it from my hand.

—No, not this —she said, laughing softly—. Your wife would find it. And I want this to be a secret. Just yours and mine.

She tucked the garment into her bag, gave me one last kiss at the corner of my lips, and whispered:

—Let’s go.

***

I set off again. This time without stretching out the miles; there was no need anymore. We talked as if nothing had happened, like two acquaintances sharing a ride. She told me that gal had only used her to get himself off and then abandoned her, and she thanked me, with disarming sincerity, for having relieved her of all that built-up tension.

—Let’s keep it between friends —she told me when she got out, already at the village entrance.

—Between friends —I repeated.

And that was that. That encounter on the road marked me like few things in life ever have, and afterward it unleashed a long story of situations I’ll tell you about slowly, because each one deserves its own tale.

I’ve run into Marisol many times since. In the square, in the market, sometimes alone, sometimes surrounded by people. She smiles at me sweetly and says “bye” as if nothing has happened. But our eyes meet a second too long, conspiratorial, and in that instant we both go back to that car stopped on the shoulder, to that memory I keep very deep inside.

Very secret.