I Made Myself a Woman for Him, and He Broke My Heart

You had no right, you bastard. No right at all to walk into my life with your sing-song accent and your statue body and that soap-opera smooth talk, and turn my world upside down just when all I wanted was for someone to turn me upside down for a while and leave without a trace.

But let’s start at the beginning.

I’m a man, single and free, neither young nor old, rather heavyset, but with my charms and my small following. Those charms go through the roof when I give in to the thrill of behaving and letting myself be treated like a woman, and a cheeky woman to be exact. Then I put on stockings with a garter belt that show off my sturdy legs, a corset that fits my curves, or a thong that leaves the roundness of my ass on display.

Sometimes I dress like that out of curiosity, for pleasure, or at the request of those who read me, and I take photos of myself that I post on hookup sites for whatever fun anyone is imagining.

And that’s how I met you, you worthless bastard. You wrote to me praising my body, flattering me with sweet talk and sending me photos of your dark skin and videos in which you stroked a long, straight erection whose taste I was dying to try.

With most of the men who write, the same thing always happens. Either on the second day they propose some unacceptable stupidity — crossing a hundred kilometers so I can give them a blowjob and then go home, or the exact opposite, becoming their proper girlfriend and moving in with them — and then I send them packing, or else they’re the ones who vanish off the face of the earth without warning for reasons I neither know nor care about.

With you, it wasn’t like that.

You wrote to me every morning, asking for photos, showering me with compliments said with that Caribbean musicality that melted me. You called me “pretty flower,” “light of my eyes,” “my queen.” You told me your wife didn’t understand you, that you felt empty, that you woke up thinking of me.

You had me hotter than a bonfire.

For months you kept me going with photos, videos, and syrupy messages, and it wasn’t just my body trembling at the thought of you anymore, but also this half-mad heart that every so often plays tricks on me and gets me into trouble. I was starting to weaken before the crazy idea that maybe a man like you could truly fall in love with me, prefer me to his wife, give me even just his nights and the fire of his desire.

When you suggested we meet in person I nearly fainted from shock, baby. I blushed to the ears and wasted no time getting everything ready. I booked a modest, discreet hostel on the outskirts of your city and showed up there with my heart full of hope and my backpack full of wigs, lingerie, condoms, and lubricant.

We’d arranged to meet in the morning, because you thought you could slip away after dropping the kids off at school and before going to work. I spent the whole night awake, trying not to get my hopes up, trying not to give in to the fear that you wouldn’t like me when you saw me up close. I even waxed everything, something I almost never do, just to please you more.

Don’t overthink it, I told myself. He’s sure to be just like the others, only after a quick fuck and then gone. And that idea, besides making me a little wet, gave me a vaguely disappointing sense of calm.

***

When morning came I got up early to be ready for you. I washed thoroughly, got myself ready, got dressed, perfumed myself, tidied the room, got jittery, checked my phone a hundred times, touched up my wig another two hundred, agitated by the situation, eager to have you near, afraid you wouldn’t like me.

And that despite the fact I had put on my very best: the black fishnet stockings that suit me so well, the animal-print thong that had drawn so many sighs, a leather corset with an attached garter belt and a scandalous neckline I bought for the occasion, and a flowing dress I had stolen years ago from my Aunt Rosaura and kept only for truly special dates.

I looked myself over again and again in the bathroom mirror: the broad, strong thighs, the full breasts, the round ass, the bright eyes, the blonde wig giving me that nightlife-woman air. I liked what I saw. But unlike other times, this time I feared the man I was waiting for wouldn’t think it was enough. Because it was you, and you weren’t just anyone.

At last you arrived, half paranoid because they’d asked for your ID at reception or some such story, looking warily around, with a cap and dark glasses like a singer being chased by photographers.

I let you in and we looked at each other nervously. You asked permission to freshen up in the bathroom, and when you came out you were already naked, with that gym-built body and that imposing presence out in the open. I sighed and nearly drooled onto the floor. You were even better than in the photos.

“Here, I brought you this.”

You handed me a bag with a light-brown wig, sleeker and a little shorter than mine, less flashy, and a headband with cat ears.

“And this?” I asked.

“So you’ll be to my taste, queen.”

And you kissed me.

The world stopped existing when I felt your lips on mine and closed my eyes to focus on your taste, on your lotion scent, on the feel of your tongue entering my mouth gently but decisively. My legs trembled and you held me with your arms, pulling me to you, squeezing me tight. I was speechless, but if I hadn’t been, I would have begged you never to let me go.

“Make yourself even more beautiful for me, princess.”

I would have worn a crown of thorns if you’d asked me to, thief. I changed the wig and put on the headband as best I could. You must have liked the game, because you looked at me with blazing eyes and a naughty smile.

“How do I look, king?”

“My sexy little kitty… come here.”

You kissed me again and touched me everywhere. I was melting at the feel of your warm hands brushing my butt, my breasts, my thighs, my cheeks. Goosebumps rose on my skin from your touch. My heart was practically leaping out of my chest.

“I want to take some photos of you as keepsakes… to look at when I’m alone and remember this day.”

I posed for you in every position you asked for. On all fours with my ass raised, squatting with my hands on my knees, on my side with my arms crossed to emphasize the breasts straining to escape the corset, biting a finger, stroking myself slowly. I don’t know how many photos you took of me. You were thrilled, never stopped giving me instructions, showering me with compliments, photographing me in one pose after another. The idea that you found me beautiful enough to want to keep me in images intoxicated me with an indescribable sense of fullness.

I don’t think you were aware of how much that meant to me.

***

At one point, while I was on all fours on the bed, I felt your hands carefully removing my thong. I helped you take it off and saw you bring it to your face and smell it with an expression of satisfaction. That sight filled me with fire and I dropped to my knees on the floor, ready at last to devour what I had been dreaming of for months.

I kissed it all over, traced it with my tongue savoring every inch, ran it over my cheeks and my chest, stroked it slowly.

“That feels so good, princess… you do it so well.”

I took it in my mouth and slowly slid it in farther and farther. It wasn’t easy; I almost felt my jaw dislocate along the way. I tried to swallow it whole, but I couldn’t make it. It was too much.

“Do you like it, pretty girl?”

“I love it… but it’s so big.”

“You make it that big.”

I rewarded the gallant remark by redoubling my efforts and managed, with great difficulty and nearly choking, to take it all the way to the back. My throat hurt, my jaw hurt, and my knees hurt, but I didn’t care. I wanted to make my man happy. I wanted to please you, arouse you, fall in love with you if I could. Because I was already in love with you like an idiot, what can you do.

I would have stayed there on my knees until the end of time, but you told me to get up and put me on the bed on all fours. You grabbed me with both hands and I felt you press your face against me and inhale hungrily. I shuddered with pleasure. I felt your wet tongue slowly running over me and thought I might faint from pleasure. My body was dripping and my heart was pounding wildly. I wanted you to make me yours, so I moaned to provoke you.

“Like that, daddy, like that.”

“You like it, mommy?”

“I love it, king.”

“You want me inside you?”

“I’m dying for it.”

You put on the condom and pushed, but you couldn’t get in.

“Put on more lubricant.”

You smeared me generously and tried again, without success.

“Don’t get discouraged, love, you’ll manage.”

You tried a third time and still didn’t get in. You were breathing hard, your voice hoarse. I thought — and I wanted it desperately — that, enraged by desire, you’d ram into me without mercy and take me however you could. I was ready for the pain, for the minutes I’d need to adjust to you, and above all for that final release in which I’d feel totally and completely yours.

But no.

You gave up and lay down beside me, looking at me with an indecipherable expression and a smile that could melt a glacier.

“I don’t want to hurt my princess.”

“But I don’t mind, baby, I…”

“Shhh, no, my queen. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make love to you… and there’ll be time.”

Even with the disappointment of getting nothing, your words puffed me up inside. I curled up against you and you held me. I kissed you. You kissed me back. You stroked my thighs, my ass, my chest. You stared at me and I felt like you were stripping not only my body but my soul. I would have loved for you to take me by the hand out into the street, introduce me as your woman, kiss me in front of everyone with the tenderness with which you kissed me then.

What nonsense. But there, on that bed, in your warm arms, I felt like never before.

How beautiful you are, my queen. What lovely eyes.

You whispered words between kisses that made me dream while awake.

No wonder men adore you, princess, with legs this divine.

I could barely hold back my tears, because a warm feeling of happiness flooded my chest and slipped beyond my control.

You are my woman and I am your man, you are my adored princess.

And you kissed me softly, and each kiss made me feel more and more like a woman. Like a real woman.

“Make me yours, love, please.”

You stroked my cheeks and looked at me tenderly, and I wanted to die right there in your arms. I needed you to make love to me.

I needed it.

I slid back toward your body and went back to work. You had me straddle your face, and while I kept going, you kissed the inner part of my thighs and caressed me. You were rock hard.

“Put it in me, please.”

“There won’t be time, my queen… next time.”

“Please.”

“With you I want to do things properly, princess.”

It was impossible to get angry with you, even if you left me hanging. I applied myself with determination to savor at least your pleasure, and from the tension in your body and the violence of your spasms I’d say you were about to come when all at once you looked at your watch and spoke in a serious, cold voice I could hardly recognize.

“Now I really do have to go.”

And gently you moved me aside, leaving me wanting.

***

You dressed in a hurry while I watched you in silence, admiring your body, trying to take in my wild emotions and sort out the head full of contradictory ideas.

“I’d like to take this with me.”

Between your fingers you were holding my used thong.

“It’s so I can smell it, kiss it, and imagine I’m kissing my queen.”

I blushed to the ears. I smiled like an idiot.

“Of course, my love.”

“And I brought you something.”

You handed me some burgundy cotton panties, pretty though a little modest for my style, clean, smelling of detergent and fabric softener, of a family-house laundry basket, grocery lists, and late-night soap operas. Of home, in short.

“They’re my wife’s… they’re for you… keep them as a souvenir.”

I put them on at once, and although they pinched a little and weren’t as provocative as my usual thongs, they have to be said to suit me well.

“How lovely. And I have to go now… I’m sorry there wasn’t time for… you know.”

“Don’t worry, my love. Honestly, being here with you has been very special.”

I meant it. Completely sincerely.

“It has for me too.”

I smiled, though suddenly I felt strangely sad.

“You have no idea how much this has meant to me.”

When I left the hostel I was wearing the panties you gave me, beneath my men’s clothes. I didn’t take them off in the following days, not even to sleep. They made me feel that I shared a bond with you.

I stopped replying to my suitors. I put off my closest friends, waiting for you to write so we could see each other again, be together once more, for you to make me yours properly at last.

***

I waited and waited, and on the seventh day, as in the scriptures, you wrote to me.

You wrote, and when I read your message I couldn’t believe it.

You were asking me — or rather, firmly demanding, though in polite words — that I get some medical tests done and send you the results. You reminded me that you had a wife and family, and you almost threatened me, in veiled fashion, with consequences if I turned out to have something.

If you had pricked me I wouldn’t have bled. You left me cold as ice.

I should have sent you to hell, but I obeyed you. I went through the ordeal of asking for the tests, enduring the uncertainty, swallowing the nerves before the result, and sending you the photos as if I were some head of cattle being sent to the vet. I expected, naive fool that I was, that seeing I was healthier than an apple you would propose we meet again, or show some joy, or at least apologize for your distrust and roughness.

None of that happened. More than that, for almost a year I heard nothing from you again.

And when you finally wrote, it was to confess that you liked dressing as a woman too, that the panties you gave me were yours, that you wanted my thong to wear in private, and that if I wanted, one day we could meet up, both dressed up, to go looking for a couple of men to tend to us properly.

I blocked you. And I would have gladly given you a lesson for being such a bastard. Not even the beautiful memory of that morning were you able to leave intact, without staining it, without dirtying it with belated confessions and last-minute nonsense, you worthless bastard.

You had no right, none at all, to get my hopes up and then come out with this bullshit.

Anyway, just so you know, I still keep your panties, your wig, and your cat headband, and I use them to roll around with guys with less smooth talk but more balls than you. Guys capable of breaking me properly in the ways you never knew how to, and not just my heart, like you did.