I’m a Crossdresser and I Live a Secret Double Life

Hello again, darlings. I’m Renata, and I’m here to confess something I’ve kept hidden for almost my whole life. This category seemed like the right place, because what I’m about to tell you is not an invented fantasy: it’s the truth of how I live, split into two halves that almost never touch.

Biologically, I was born male. Mentally and emotionally, however, I’ve always been a woman. It’s not something I chose or a pose to get attention. It’s what I’ve been since I can remember, long before I had words to name it.

My taste for women’s clothes appeared early and with a force that scared me. Stockings, skirts, high heels, lingerie. Everything connected to dressing like a woman attracted me in a way I couldn’t explain or repress. On the outside I was an ordinary boy, but the curiosity to try on those clothes was always stronger than I was.

The first thing I dared to wear was a pair of high heels. I remember my hands trembling the first time I slid my foot in and took a few steps in front of the mirror. The arch of my foot, the line of my calf, the way the heel changed my whole body. I thought it was beautiful. I’ve always taken very good care of my feet; they’re one of the parts of me I adore most.

I’m tall, five foot ten. Neither skinny nor fat, more what you’d affectionately call “full-figured.” Firm legs, generous thighs, slender ankles, a waist that still shows, and hips that, modesty aside, turn heads when I dress well. My breasts are medium-sized, with that fat accumulation that over the years gave me a soft, very, very sensitive shape. Femininely sensitive, I’d say.

My face is halfway masculine. Medium nose, brown eyes, lips I really like: when I paint them a dark red, they stop being a man’s lips. That’s the magic. A little makeup, a wig, the right dress, and the woman who always lived inside comes out to breathe.

***

Here comes the hard part to confess. In my life as a man, I’m married. I have a routine, a façade, a name I sign on papers that isn’t my real one. I love my partner in my own way, but I can’t deceive my own nature.

Because I don’t just like dressing up. I feel an absolute fascination for men. I adore them. The way they move, their strength, the roughness of their hands, the direct way they desire. And sexually, there’s nothing in the world I like more than a good macho wrapping his arms around me and shoving his cock into me to the hilt as many times as he wants. I was made for that, for sucking dick and opening my ass, and I’ve never had the slightest doubt about it.

When I was young, I thought I’d never get a man. I come from a country and an era where machismo crushed everything, where a desire like mine was paid for dearly. I was wrong. I don’t know what it is, but even in my role as a man, something shows. One once told me in my ear: —You look like a guy, but you project a beautiful woman. You even smell like a woman. I’m getting hard just imagining your mouth on my cock.

Many men have passed through my bed. Of every kind, every body, every education. Thick dicks, long dicks, straight cocks and crooked cocks, loads of thick semen and others that were barely a thread. I’m grateful to each one. I never went without what I wanted, and at this point I can say that was the whole point.

***

Anyone would think a life like this is hard and tormented, that I live suffering because I don’t have the body I want. But no. I’m at peace. I had the chance to have surgery and didn’t do it, because I learned to accept myself as I am: a woman who’s temperamental in bed, tender with men, a slut and accommodating until they fill my mouth or my ass with come. That’s how I’m happy.

Now I’m a mature woman. I’m forty-eight years old and, believe me, men’s interest in me hasn’t dropped one bit. I take care of myself, I keep myself up, I know how to get ready. I have friends who know what I am and fuck me whenever they feel like it. I only dress up when I have a date now, and always in safe territory: a hotel room or the man’s house. The double life has its rules, and I follow them.

I’m going to tell you about one of those nights, so you understand what I mean when I say I’m complete this way.

***

I met him by message. His name was Damián, or at least that’s how he introduced himself, and from the first lines he had the decency to be honest: he knew what I was and that was exactly what he was looking for. He sent me a photo of his cock on the third message, thick, veined, cut, with the tip already shiny with fluid, and then I knew the date would be worth it. We agreed to meet at a hotel downtown, a discreet one, the kind where nobody asks questions and nobody remembers your face.

I got there before he did. I always arrive early, because dressing is a ritual and I don’t rush it for anyone. I closed the door, put on some low music, and opened my suitcase. First the stockings, sliding them slowly up my freshly shaved legs. Then the black lace set, the thong that barely covers my cock, and the bra that supports that small but sensitive chest that drives me crazy when a man sucks on it. In front of the bathroom mirror I lined my eyes, painted my lips that dark red that transforms me, and adjusted my wig of brown hair.

When I was done, the one looking back at me from the mirror was Renata. Whole. The tight dress outlined my hips, the heels lengthened my legs, and for a moment I stood still admiring myself, feeling that strange calm I only find when I’m fully her. Under the lace I was already wet with anticipation, my ass throbbing with need.

There was a knock at the door. My heart lurched, as it always does the first time.

I opened it. Damián was taller than I’d imagined, broad-shouldered, with a short beard and big hands I noticed at once. He looked me up and down without even pretending not to, and the smile that spread across his face told me everything I needed to know. Under his pants, a bulge showed clearly, and it made me swallow.

—You’re prettier than in the photos —he said, and walked in.

—And you talk too much for how little time we have —I answered, closing the door behind him—. I came here to get fucked, not to chat.

He laughed. I liked that he laughed.

***

There was no rush at first. He sat on the edge of the bed and told me to come closer, just to look at me. I walked toward him, measuring every step on the heels, knowing exactly what that walk does to a man. When I was near, his hands slid up my thighs, over the stocking, until they found the edge of the lace. Slowly. Like someone mapping out new territory. His fingers slipped under the thong and squeezed one cheek hard, parting my flesh until I felt the cool air touch my asshole.

—Turn around —he murmured—. I want to see that ass.

I obeyed. I like obeying when a man knows what he wants. I felt his face pressed against my lower back, his warm breath, his lips following the line of my spine while he lowered the zipper of my dress centimeter by centimeter. When the fabric gave way, he moved my thong aside with one finger and gave me a long lick right between my cheeks, from bottom to top, that tore a sharp moan out of me.

—What a delicious ass you have —he growled, and licked me again, this time sinking the tip of his tongue into the hole, pushing, soaking me all over.

The fabric fell to the floor. I stood before him in lingerie and heels, my hard cock straining under the lace, with a dark spot of precum staining the thong. He took a long time to say anything. He just looked at me, with that hunger I recognize and that makes me feel more like a woman than any document ever could.

—Come here —he said at last, and pulled on my hand—. Suck me first, I want to see that painted mouth swallowing cock.

I fell across his lap and his mouth found mine. He kissed hard, barely biting, one hand tangled in my hair and the other firm on my hip. I unbuttoned his shirt one button at a time, ran my palms over his chest, over his hard stomach, feeling his breathing speed up under my fingers. When I opened his pants and freed his cock, my mouth watered. It was thick, just the right length to fill my throat, with heavy balls hanging beneath it.

I slid to the floor between his knees and took it in both hands. I ran my tongue all over the shaft, from the balls to the tip, gathering the drop of fluid already beading there. Then I opened my mouth and took it all the way in, to the hilt, until my nose hit his pubic bone and tears blurred my eyeliner. Damián let out a hoarse groan and threw his head back, his fingers closing in my hair, pushing me.

—That’s it, slut, that’s it —he whispered—. Swallow it all.

I took my time. I went up and down with my mouth dripping saliva, pulling it out now and then to lick his balls, to take one into my mouth at a time and suck on it hungrily. I sucked the tip with tight lips, playing with my tongue on the frenulum until I felt him trembling. I enjoy every second of this, the weight on my tongue, the heat, the way my name slips through his teeth. There’s no rush when you’re doing what you love.

After a while he pulled me away, my face wet and my mascara smudged, and made me stand up.

—On all fours on the bed —he ordered—. Now.

***

I climbed onto the mattress as he asked, still wearing the heels, and arched my back to offer him my ass. Damián moved behind me, ripped my thong off with a yank that made me yelp, and went back to my cunt with his tongue. This time he really ate my ass: he spread my cheeks with both hands and shoved his tongue inside, in and out, soaking me, eating me like I was a pussy. I buried my face in the pillow and moaned, moving my ass against his face, asking for more.

Then came the fingers. One first, slick with spit, sliding in without resistance because my ass has been trained for years and knows how to open on its own. Two after that, turning inside me, searching for my prostate with a precision that made me drool into the pillow. When he found the spot, he started massaging it slowly and I cried out against the fabric, my cock dripping between my legs with nobody touching it.

—You’re ready, horny girl —he said—. You can already feel that cock, can’t you?

—Put it in —I begged—. Put it in now, please.

He spat on the tip, rubbed it well all over the shaft, and set it against my entrance. He pushed slowly, attentive to my body, reading every reaction. I felt the head stretch my ring, that delicious burn I’ve known forever, and then the length entering little by little, opening me, filling me until his balls slapped against my cheeks.

—All the way in —he growled, and stayed still for a second, letting me feel it.

The first real thrust tore a moan out of me that I couldn’t control. Then he found the rhythm, slow at first, deeper each time. I arched to take him in, burying my face in the pillow so I wouldn’t scream, while he held me by the hips and drove his cock into me with thrusts that grew longer and longer. He slapped my ass hard, leaving my cheeks red, and pulled my hair until he had me arched for him.

—Look at how this cock opens you —he said in my ear—. Look at how you swallow it, beautiful slut.

He flipped me onto my back without pulling all the way out, lifted my legs until my heels rested on his shoulders, and drove into me again to the hilt. From that angle he hit my prostate just right every time, and I started shaking all over, my cock bouncing against my stomach, spitting strings of precum over the lace of my bra. He looked into my eyes while he fucked me, never slowing down, with that concentration men get when they know they’re doing their job well.

—I’m going to come without touching myself —I warned him, my voice breaking.

—Come for me, baby. Come with my cock inside you.

And I came. A long, thick stream that stained my chest and stomach, with my ass contracting around him in waves that tore a growl from him. He held out even longer, kept driving into me while I was still trembling, biting his lip, and after a few more thrusts he sank deep and unloaded inside me. I felt every pulse, every hot spurt filling me, and arched my back to take it all.

—You’re a real woman —he said when he finished, leaning over me, still inside—. Best fuck I’ve had in years.

That sentence, at that moment, was worth more than a thousand surgeries.

When he finally pulled out, I stayed there feeling how his come began to leak down my thigh. I slipped two fingers in, collected what I could, and brought it to my mouth, looking at him. That drives men crazy. Another moan escaped Damián, as if his cock was already asking for another round.

***

Afterward we stayed silent for a while, his arm across my waist, sweat cooling on our skin, his semen still slowly dripping from between my cheeks. I didn’t ask for his number or promise him anything. Damián didn’t either. That’s the beauty of my double life: each night is complete in itself, with no debts, no guilt, no tomorrow.

I dressed like a man again in front of the mirror, packed Renata into my suitcase with her soaked lingerie and her wig, and left the hotel as someone else for the world. But inside I went out whole, satisfied, my ass still pleasantly burning, at peace.

I’m saying all this because that’s how I’ve always been: a complete woman in a man’s body. And if someone reading this carries the same condition in secret, I want to tell them something. It’s not bad. You’re not sick or crazy. You’re a beautiful woman hidden in the wrong body, and there are plenty of hard-cocked men out there who adore girls like us.

Love yourself a lot. Take care of yourself. And never, ever go without a good fucking, beautiful girl.

Thanks for reading, darlings. As always, I send you a hug.

Yours, Renata.