I’m trans and submissive: this is how I learned to obey

Good evening. Let me introduce myself before I tell you anything that’s happened to me, because there are things you only understand if you know who’s telling them.

My name is Sabrina to almost everyone. Sabri or Bri to the people who love me, and Brina to the very few who know me for real. I’m a trans girl and I’m thirty-four years old. I’ve wanted to write this for a long time and I always found an excuse not to do it. Tonight, at last, I didn’t find one.

I don’t want to make this into a neat series or an autobiography with chapters. What I want is to put my life down in writing as I remember it, out of order, as you ask me for it. You ask, I answer by writing. I like the idea of this being a conversation, not a monologue. But for it to make sense, you first have to know who I am now.

I work in sex. I’m saying it bluntly because I got tired of euphemisms. I fuck for money and I like doing it. I share a work flat with two other girls in the center of Valencia, and I live in Torrent, in another flat I share with my best friend. I don’t have a partner. I’ve never had much luck with that, or maybe I never looked in the right place.

There are three words that define me better than my name: trans, submissive, and, for the past couple of years, a girl in the middle of transforming herself into something sweeter and more artificial, more doll-like. I like that word. Doll. They whisper it in my ear while they fuck me and everything inside me goes slack; I don’t have a pussy anymore, but my ass and my mouth go slack, and those are the ones I use to please.

Physically, I’m tall, one meter eighty-one, and slim. I always took care of myself, but now I do it with a different intention, almost obsessively. I have a soft-featured face, gray-blue eyes that change with the light, and long dyed-blonde hair that falls in waves to my waist. I have tattoos that tell stories and piercings I hide or show depending on the day, including the two I wear in my nipples and the one that pierces the head of my cock. What people notice most about me are my tits: a large size I had done twice and that I plan to have done a third time, because I like them bouncing when I’m fucked from behind. And, of course, the cock hanging between my legs, which for work and for pleasure I keep functional, though I almost never use it to penetrate anyone: mine is the one that gets sucked and the one that gets jerked off when someone else works it.

As for personality, I’m affectionate to the point of exhaustion. Since I was little I felt good taking care of people, serving, anticipating what the other person needed before they asked for it. It took me years to understand that wasn’t weakness, that it was my way of wanting. Obeying calms me. Pleasing turns me on. Opening my mouth when I’m told and swallowing whatever they put in me makes me feel in my place. And once I accepted that, I stopped fighting with the only part of me that never lied to me.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I was ashamed of everything: the body I was born with, the voice I struggled to smooth out, the desires I felt and wouldn’t let myself feel. I grew up in a small town where a girl like me was little short of a scandal, and I learned how to make myself invisible long before I learned how to put on makeup. When I finally left and started transitioning, I did it with anger and fear in equal measure. The calm came later, slowly, and it came from an unexpected place: from accepting that I liked surrendering, opening my legs and my ass for the man who knew how to ask for it properly.

That’s why I’m writing. I’m not looking for pity or applause. I just want to tell my life as I lived it, with its bright parts and its murky parts, without dressing anything up. If anything I tell you hits something inside you, or gets your cock hard, it will have been worth it.

***

I’m going to tell you how I came to understand all this, because it started with a man I never even really got to know.

It was three winters ago, on a rainy afternoon when the work flat was dead. My roommates had gone home and I stayed because I didn’t feel like taking the train back. I was alone, in a robe, without panties, watching the water slide down the glass, when the intercom rang.

—Sabrina? —said a deep voice on the other end—. I called this morning.

I didn’t remember him, but I let him in anyway. He came up slowly. When I saw him in the landing I knew that afternoon was going to be different. He was a man of about forty, broad-shouldered, with a calm that filled the whole hallway. He didn’t devour me with his eyes the way almost everyone else did. He looked me over, unhurried, like someone assessing something he was going to have in his hands for a long while.

—You’re taller than I expected —he said.

—Does that bother you? —I asked, already using the tone of someone who wants to please.

—On the contrary. I like them tall and with something between their legs.

I blushed and my knees trembled. I led him into the living room. I offered him a drink and, while I poured it, I felt his eyes fixed on my nape, on the line of my back, on the way the robe clung to my ass when I bent over. He didn’t touch me. He just looked. And that gaze weighed more than any hand.

—Come here —he said, seated on the sofa—. Slowly. I want to see you walk.

I obeyed. I crossed the living room on my heels, aware of every step, and something in my chest settled itself on its own, like when a piece finally fits into place. This is what I am, I thought. This, and not what I pretend to be the rest of the day.

He stopped me an inch from his knees.

—Kneel.

I did it without thinking, and as I did I let out a breath I’d been holding all day. He moved a strand of hair off my face with two fingers, slowly, and held my chin so I’d look at him.

—Don’t be in a hurry —he said—. Today you’re only in charge of one thing: how much you like this. In everything else, I’m in charge. Is that clear, doll?

—Yes, sir —I whispered, and the word came out on its own.

He opened his pants without taking his eyes off me and took out his cock right there, in front of my face. It was thick, hard, the head already shining. He put it an inch from my lips and waited, not pushing it in, just showing it to me so I’d look properly.

—Stick out your tongue.

I stuck it out. He rested the tip of the glans on my tongue and left it there, still, while I breathed through my nose and my mouth watered. He stroked my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

—Suck it slowly. Like you want me.

I opened my mouth and took him in centimeter by centimeter. I wrapped my lips around him, licked him underneath, ran my tongue along the frenulum until he made his thighs tremble. He held my hair in one hand, not to force me, but to see me better. He pulled it out, watched the thread of saliva dripping from my chin, and then shoved it back into my mouth, deeper each time. When I reached the base and my throat closed, I coughed, my eyes filled with tears, and he stroked my hair like someone petting an animal that’s doing a good job.

—Good girl —he said—. Swallow it again. Slower.

I swallowed him again, and again, learning how to breathe when he pulled out, learning how to relax my throat when he pushed in. I sucked his balls one by one, took them into my mouth, licked underneath them while I jerked him off with a hand slick with spit. A low moan slipped out of him, almost a growl, and that sound made me wetter inside than if he had touched me. Under the robe, my cock was already hard, dripping onto the floor, and I didn’t even dare brush against it.

—Enough —he said after a while, and gently pulled me away from him, holding my jaw—. I don’t want to come yet. Stand up.

He pulled me up himself, by the arm. He made me climb onto his lap, facing away from him, and he spoke in my ear while he traced my arms with his fingertips, touching nothing urgent, heating me up slowly. He told me I was beautiful. He told me several times, in that low voice that gets under your skin, and I melted more from his words than from his hands. I’m like that. My skin responds, but what really undoes me is someone deciding for me, telling me what I am and making me believe it.

—Turn around —he ordered.

I turned around over him, straddling him, and finally he kissed me. It was a slow, deep kiss, the kind that takes its time because it knows there’s no hurry. He bit my lower lip just as I was starting to relax, and the small pain tore a moan from me that I couldn’t hold back. I felt his hard cock pressing up against me, tight against my ass through the robe, and I started moving on top of him, looking for it.

—That’s it —he murmured against my mouth—. That’s how I want you. No pretending. Rub that whore’s ass of yours against me.

He opened my robe without taking it all off, leaving me half dressed, exposed and still covered, which is how I like feeling most: in someone’s hands, deciding nothing. He trailed his lips along my neck, down my collarbone, stopped at my tits with an attention that made me arch. He sucked my nipples one at a time, tugging at the piercing with his teeth, and I grabbed the back of his neck, asking for more without words, pushing myself against his mouth. With his other hand he found my cock underneath, took it fully in his hand, and started jerking me slowly, his palm already soaked with what was dripping from me.

—Look at you —he said—. Hard and dripping like a little bitch. Is that what happens when you obey?

—Yes, sir —I gasped.

—Stay still —he said, and squeezed my hips to stop me when I started fucking his hand—. When I say so.

And I stayed still. Trembling, my cock throbbing against his closed fist, but still. That obedience, that surrender, made me feel more woman than any surgery. Because choosing to give myself over is the only thing nobody ever gave me; I earned that myself, through and through, learning how to trust.

He laid me face-down on the sofa, pulled my robe up to my waist, and spread my legs at the knees. I felt his hands part my ass cheeks and his tongue, hot and precise, licking my ass from top to bottom. I screamed into the cushion. He ate me out without rushing, mouth open, soaking me, pushing his tongue inside until he had me begging. He was teaching me who was in charge with his mouth before he did it with his cock.

—Please —I whispered, and I wasn’t ashamed. On the contrary. Saying it out loud set something free in me—. Please, sir, fuck me.

—Fuck you how? Ask properly.

—Fuck my ass. Put it in me now, please.

He chuckled softly and bit one cheek. He opened me with two fingers, one first, then two, wet with his saliva, and moved them inside until I started pushing back on my own against his hand. When I was open enough, he positioned himself behind me, held my hips with both hands, and placed the tip of his cock at my hole. I felt it there, thick, waiting.

—Breathe —he said.

I breathed, and he pushed in. He entered slowly, firmly, taking ground centimeter by centimeter while I gritted my teeth into the cushion and a long moan escaped me, half pain, half relief. When he was all the way in, his balls pressed against me, he paused for a second so I could get used to him. He kissed my back twice, between the shoulder blades, while he stroked my hair away from my neck.

—What a tight ass you have, doll —he murmured—. It was made for this.

He started moving. At first slowly, with long, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in to the hilt, setting a rhythm that forced me to breathe with him. I grabbed the sofa arm with both hands and opened wider, lifting my ass, offering it to him in full. Every time he slid all the way in I let out a sharp moan, and he answered with a rough growl that turned me on even more.

—That’s it, good girl. Open up for me. All yours.

He sped up. The thrusts became shorter, harder, and the sofa started hitting the wall with every shove. He grabbed my hair with one hand, pulled me up until I was on my knees, my back arched against his chest, and kept fucking me like that, held by the hair, while with the other hand he reached for my cock from the front. He grabbed it and started pounding me at the same rhythm he was pounding into me from behind.

—Do you like being fucked like this, doll? Say it.

—I love it, sir. Fuck me hard. Fuck me like a slut.

—That’s what you are. My obedient little bitch.

He said it in my ear, biting my lobe, and something inside me broke. He touched me like someone reading, learning what made me moan and what made me beg. Every time he found a spot that undid me, he went back to it until he left me on the edge and then stopped, just to watch me writhe and ask. He took me to the brink three times, four, leaving me to beg him to let me finish, and only when I truly begged him, voice shattered, did he loosen his hand on my cock and whisper yes.

—Come. Come with me inside you. Look at me.

I turned my head back, looking for his eyes, and the moment I found them I exploded. My whole body arched, my orgasm shot out onto the sofa in long spurts while my ass clenched all around his cock, milking it without meaning to. He held on for two, three more thrusts, each one deeper than the last, and with a low roar he came inside me, driving in to the hilt, emptying himself completely while I felt him pulsing. And it was that, his gaze holding mine and his semen filling me, that split me in two.

Afterward he held me. That was what surprised me most. He let himself fall onto the sofa with me, still inside, and kept me against his chest for a good while, in silence, while the rain kept falling against the glass. When he pulled out, slowly, he did it carefully, and with two fingers he wiped what was dripping from him and smeared it across my lips for me to lick off. I did it without thinking. He didn’t have to stay. It was paid for, he could have left. But he stayed, and stroked my hair, and for once I felt simply cared for.

—Are you okay? —he asked after a while.

—Better than okay —I said, and it was true.

***

I never saw him again. He called a couple more times the following week, but our schedules didn’t line up and then he disappeared, the way almost everyone in this line of work disappears. It didn’t matter as much as you’d think. He left me something more valuable than a second date: he left me certain of who I was when I stopped fighting myself.

From that afternoon on, I stopped being afraid of my own desire. I understood that being submissive didn’t make me less, that opening my mouth, my ass, and my legs for the right man is the freest way I know to be with someone. And I understood that the woman I want to be, that sweet, obedient doll I’m building through my choices, is not a mask. It’s the truest thing I have.

That’s why I’m starting here. With a rainy afternoon and a stranger who treated me the way I’d always needed to be treated: like the affectionate little bitch I am. There are many more stories, some sweeter, others much rougher. I’ll tell them as you ask for them.

Ask me whatever you want. I’m not shy about anything. You decide where I go next, and as you know, I love being the one someone decides for.

Kisses,

Brina.