I Surrendered to Him the First Time I Felt Like a Woman

You and I share something we would hardly ever say out loud. When no one is looking, when the door is locked and the silence of the night allows everything, you seek out stories like this. I know because I’m the one who writes them, the one who feels them, the one who dedicates them to men like you.

My name is Camila inside my head. In the outside world I have another name, a presence that reflects none of what I am when I’m alone. No one knows. No one needs to know.

Today is Thursday afternoon. I got home earlier than expected and as soon as I closed the door I went straight to the bedroom. I undressed slowly in front of the big mirror I have leaning against the wall. I stood looking at myself for a moment: a thin body, without my own curves, with a sex I never felt was mine. I saw myself as I always do and then, little by little, I started to see myself the way I want to see myself.

I opened the bottom drawer of the closet. That’s where I keep what no one knows I have: a very short black dress, a cream lace thong, a pair of silver high-heeled sandals that fit me snugly. I put them on with the calm of someone carrying out a ritual she knows by heart. First the thong, holding in what I want to hide. Then the dress, which falls to mid-thigh and slims my silhouette. Lastly the sandals, which make a soft, precise sound with every step I take.

And then, in front of the mirror, I stopped being ashamed.

This is me. This is the real me.

I’m masturbating thinking about you while I write this. I pull the thong down to my knees, spit into my hand, and grab my hard cock, dripping precum against my own thigh. I stroke myself thinking about your mouth, your fingers, your cock entering me. About what we’d do if we could. About what I’m going to tell you now, with my hand full of my own cum before I’ve even finished the first page.

***

Imagine we meet in some random bar. One of those bars with low light and music that doesn’t interrupt the conversation. I’m wearing the black dress, the sandals that tap softly on the floor with every step I take. You see me from the bar and something in you shifts, something that recognizes what I am before your mind has time to classify it.

We greet each other. I kiss you on the cheek and brush your ear with the tip of my tongue, just for a second. Your breathing changes instantly. Under the table I rest my hand on your crotch and feel your cock starting to show against your pants. I squeeze it once, without smiling, looking you in the eye.

“Want to go?” I ask.

You don’t answer me with words.

***

Your apartment is tidy and smells like wood and something clean. I don’t care about the address or the floor: what matters is that as soon as you close the door you grab my arms and gently push me against the wall. You look me up and down without hiding anything. I like that. That you don’t hide what you see. That the bulge against the fabric shows and you don’t try to conceal it.

“Is this your first time?” you ask.

“Yes,” I confess.

You smile. Not with cruelty, but with something that seems like care and desire mixed in the same expression. You take me deeper inside without letting go of my arms.

Your bedroom has a big bed and a yellow light that makes everything warmer. You stand me in the middle of the room and examine me in silence. I put my hands behind my back, as if surrendering myself to your inspection. The dress falls to mid-thigh. The sandals make me a few inches taller. My lace thong barely contains what I’m trying to hide, and under the fabric I’m already hard just from knowing what’s going to happen.

You come closer slowly. You circle me. Then you kiss me on the neck from behind, with your lips barely parted. I feel your teeth brush my skin and a shiver runs up my spine. Your right hand slides over my belly, over the dress, down, finds the bulge in my thong and squeezes it shamelessly. A low sound escapes you, almost a pleased surprise, when you realize how hard I already am for you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you say. “And you’ve soaked the lace.”

I don’t know whether it’s true or whether it’s what I need to hear right now. It doesn’t matter either way.

I turn around and kiss you on the mouth. A long, deep kiss, with my hands resting on your chest. Our tongues meet and I forget everything I am not. Only what I am remains. I slide my hand down and grab your cock over your pants, wrapping my open palm around it, measuring its length and thickness through the fabric, and my mouth waters just imagining what I’m going to do with it.

***

You slide the dress straps off my shoulders with your thumbs. The fabric falls to the floor without resistance. I’m left in thong and sandals, with the smooth chest I never asked for but that now, under your gaze, I feel as part of me anyway. You pinch my nipples, one and then the other, twisting them just a little until they harden like little stones. I moan into your mouth.

“Don’t take those off,” you say, pointing at the sandals.

I nod.

You strip faster than I expected. Your body is exactly the one I’d imagined for years: broad shoulders, a torso covered in dark hair, arms with that solidity that makes me feel small in a way I like. When you lower your pants and then your underwear, I understand everything. Your cock springs upward, thick and veined, the head purple and shining already with precum. It’s bigger than I expected, wider, and my ass tightens just thinking about that going inside me.

I kneel without you asking.

You take your cock in your hands and bring it to my mouth. I grab it slowly, with my fingers first, exploring the weight and heat, feeling it pulse against my palm. I run it over my closed lips, rub it against my cheek, against my chin, until a thread of precum sticks to my skin. Only then do I open my mouth and take it in.

It’s the first time I’ve ever done this. I do it with the honest clumsiness of someone learning and with the hunger of someone who has spent years imagining this exact moment. I close my lips around the tip and suck slowly, pressing my tongue against the frenulum. I push deeper until the head hits my palate and then a little more, until I feel the gag reflex rising and have to pull back for a second, eyes watering and a long strand of saliva hanging from my lip to your cock.

I hear you let out a slow breath. My hands hold you by the thighs as I find the rhythm. I go back down, now with more eagerness, letting the tip scrape my throat. My tongue teases you underneath, along the thick vein running the length of it. My mouth fills with saliva and whatever overflows dribbles down my chin, onto my chest, shining on your cock when I pull back and dive in again.

Your fingers tangle in my hair.

“Like that,” you say. “Exactly like that. Suck it all, slut.”

The word goes through me. No one had ever called me that before and now I need it like air. I keep going. The saliva mixes with your taste and I find that I don’t dislike it: on the contrary, it wakes something up in my belly, an urgency pushing inward and forward at the same time. I suck you slowly, then harder, the tip and then as much as I can, licking you from base to tip while your breathing changes rhythm. I grab your balls with one hand, weigh them, take them into my mouth one at a time, suck them and go back to your cock without letting go of your thighs.

When I feel your firm hand on my nape, I let myself be carried along. You push my face against your pelvis until my nose touches your hair, until my throat opens by force and I feel the tip slip past. Choking, with tear-filled eyes, I stay like that for a few seconds that feel like minutes, listening to you growl above me. When you let me go, I fall back panting, mouth open, a thick string of spit hanging between us.

“Stop,” you say suddenly. “Not yet.”

***

You lift me up in one soft tug. You turn me around. You push the thong down with your thumbs and let it fall to the floor. I’m left naked in front of you — naked in the way that matters — with my hands on the edge of the bed and the sandals still on. My own cock hangs between my legs, hard, dripping onto the comforter. You don’t care. You’re not distracted by it. You’re interested in what’s behind.

You spread my legs with your knee. You push my back down so I arch. I stay in that position, offering you my ass, offering you the only thing I have to give. I feel your hands part my cheeks, exposing me completely, and then I feel your tongue.

You bent down without warning and licked my asshole from top to bottom, all of it, with your tongue flat and hot. I screamed into the mattress. No one had ever done that to me before. You ate my ass with obscene calm, pushing the tip of your tongue inside, wetting me, preparing me. You slid one finger in first, then two, spitting on top, moving them in circles until I felt something open, something give. My legs were shaking. The silver sandals dug into my ankles.

I hear the sound of saliva in your palm. I feel the heat of your hand moving over your cock, coating it well. And then, the pressure.

The pressure is unlike anything I imagined. The broad tip pushing against the ring, forcing it, winning ground millimeter by millimeter. It’s not clean pain or immediate pleasure: it’s something new, dense, still without a name. I bite my lip until it bleeds. You breathe slowly, you enter slowly, head first, one push, a pause, another push, and the slowness is a form of care I didn’t expect from such a raw, real moment.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you say.

“Don’t stop,” I answer. My voice comes out different, lower, more honest than anything else I’ve ever said in my life. “Put it all in me. Break me.”

And you don’t stop.

***

When you’re completely inside, I stay still for a moment, processing the sensation. Your heat inside me. Your cock filling my whole ass, touching a point I didn’t know existed, a point that makes my cock twitch against my belly all by itself. Your weight against my back. Your balls pressed against mine. The soles of my sandals tapping softly on the floor with every deep breath I try to take and can’t quite manage.

You start moving. Slowly at first, with great care. Every thrust is a confirmation of something I never knew how to articulate but that my body recognizes as true. I push back to meet you. We fall into sync without saying anything, as if the body knew before the mind. Every time you pull almost all the way out and shove back to the hilt, a moan tears itself from my throat, one I don’t recognize as my own.

The rhythm speeds up. Your hands wrap around my hips and you pull me toward you with each inward thrust. You’re not being careful anymore: you’re fucking me. You’re breaking me. The sound of your pelvis against my ass fills the room, dry and rhythmic, mixed with the slapping and dripping of saliva and precum between us. I moan into the mattress. The sound surprises me because it’s a sound I’d never made before, one I didn’t know I could make. A sharp, feminine moan, broken by every thrust.

“That’s it,” you say. “Slut. My little slut. Squeeze my cock with your ass.”

And my whole body prickles. I squeeze as best I can, tightening around you, and I hear you growl deep against my nape. You slap my ass and the sound rings through the whole room, then shove harder, with your open palm on my lower back, pinning me into the mattress.

I lost track of time. Only the movement exists, the pressure, your breath against my nape, the dry, rhythmic noise of bodies, your smell mixed with mine in the warm room air, the smell of sex, of sweat, of saliva, of semen that hasn’t come yet but is already announcing itself.

I am your slave and you are my master, and in this moment I don’t want to be anything else in the world.

***

You turn me around without pulling out. I don’t know how you do it, but you do, and suddenly I’m on my back with my legs open and in the air, your hands planted at the sides of my head. You grab my ankles and set them on your shoulders. The silver sandals dangle beside your ears. You look at me as you slide back in, this time with one deep thrust that rips a scream out of me. This time I can see your face and that changes everything: I can’t hide anymore, not even inside my own mind.

I kiss you.

You thrust harder. Our chests rub together. You feel the difference between our two bodies — my hard cock bumping against your belly with every thrust, wet, leaving a trail of precum on your skin — but you don’t stop, you don’t change your expression, and that detail breaks something in my chest in a way I didn’t expect. You treat me like what I am. You treat me like the woman I am. You fuck me in the ass while looking me in the eye and call me slut and make me feel beautiful all at once.

You lower one hand and grab my cock. You start jerking me off to the rhythm of your thrusts. I thrash beneath you, clutching the sheets, not knowing what to do with my hands, with my body, with my open mouth that won’t close anymore.

I start losing control of my own body. I feel something building and building until there’s no way I can hold it back even if I want to.

“I’m going to cum,” I whisper.

“Cum,” you tell me, without slowing down, squeezing my cock just right with your hand. “Cum for me, slut, while I fuck your ass.”

And I cum. I cum in a long spasm, arching my whole back, while you keep moving without breaking rhythm, your body weighing down on mine. It’s the first time I’ve cum like this, with almost no effort on your part, just from what you’re doing to me inside. My cum shoots out in thick spurts that hit my chest, my throat, my chin. One reaches my lip and I stick out my tongue without thinking, to taste myself, to offer myself completely. The pleasure is different from what I knew: more diffuse, deeper, more yours than mine. My cum drips between us, mixes with the sweat, and I don’t care about anything.

You stay still for a moment, breathing hard against my neck, looking at the white mess over my chest.

“I’m not done yet,” you say, and you bring two fingers to my cum, wet them well, and put them in my mouth. I suck them without hesitation, looking you in the eye.

***

You sit me on your lap. I wrap my legs around your waist. Like this, looking you in the eye, I start moving. Your cock stays driven deep inside and I ride it from above, rising and falling, feeling every centimeter going in and out. Your hands hold me by the waist, then slide down to my ass, spreading it, squeezing it, guiding my movement. My arms wrap around your neck. I kiss you slowly while we move together in that rhythm we already know by heart.

My sandals hang in the air. The silver heel gleams in the yellow room light. I cling to your neck and kiss you like a woman in love while I ride you, while your cock goes in and out of my ass, while we both sweat and rub and there’s no difference anymore between what you feel and what I feel. My cock, still half-hard, rubs against your belly with every drop, leaving you a shining line of the little I still have left to give.

I can feel you swelling inside me. I know you’re close because your fingers dig into my hip, because you thrust up into me, because you stop kissing me to growl against my neck.

“Inside,” I beg. “Cum inside. Fill me.”

And you cum. You feel it with your whole body. Not just in mine: in yours too, in the tension of your muscles, in the sound you make, in how you pull me against you without wanting to let go. I felt the hot spurts exploding inside me, one after another, filling me until there’s no more room. You stay inside, throbbing, slowly, until the breathing returns to normal and the world takes shape again. When you pull out, a thick thread of semen slips from my ass and dribbles down my thigh.

We stay embraced. Your forehead against mine. Neither of us speaks for a long while.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“More than okay,” I answer. “I feel like a woman.”

***

Now we each go back to where we are. You in your space and I in mine, alone again, with the usual silence and the screen lit in the dark.

I undress in front of the mirror. I take off the dress, the sandals, everything. I look at myself. My belly is still painted with my own dried cum. I don’t see myself the same way anymore. I’m no longer ashamed of what I see because I know what’s inside, and inside I am Camila, and Camila is real even if no one else knows it.

If you ever want to, I’ll be here. Keeping the black dress in the bottom drawer. Waiting for the moment when I can put it on for you again.

Until then, I give myself permission to imagine I’m yours whenever you want me to be.

With affection,

Camila.