Marcela, the Transvestite Maid of the Estate

Marcial was born in the mid-1940s, into a humble family like almost everyone else in his village. Like the rest of the children of that time, he left school early and went to work in the fields. From a very young age he had soft manners and a way of moving that others remarked on, and he himself understood before anyone else that he felt like a woman and that he was much more attracted to boys than to girls.

At seventeen, during the olive harvest, he met a girl who caught his attention. Not because what he felt changed, but because in that closed society every man had to find himself a woman and get married, and confessing otherwise was unthinkable. He started going out with her, and before long she became his wife.

Already married, and with a child on the way, Marcial still felt like a woman and never stopped looking for other men. He did it in secret: once the day’s work was over, washed and groomed, he stopped each afternoon at a village bar where the ones who knew the score gathered. A wink or a gesture was enough for him to slip into the toilet and wait. There, leaning against piss-stained tiles, he would open their fly with eager fingers, pull out their hard cocks, and work them with his hand, spitting into his palm to make it slide better from the base to the head. If he really liked the man, he would drop to his knees without thinking on the filthy floor tiles, take the whole dick into his mouth, and suck it to the hilt, choking when the tip hit the back of his throat, then swallowing every drop of hot cum without letting a single thread fall. He would lick his lips and walk out as if nothing had happened, with the other man’s taste still on his tongue.

One afternoon, in that same bar, Cosme approached him, the estate manager for a landowner in the area who was said to be one of them too. He offered him a steady job in the fields, working for his boss. Marcial, who had nothing secure, had no trouble saying yes, and the following Monday he started.

The manager placed him somewhere comfortable: the storehouse. He was put in charge of the tools and implements that were handed out each morning to the more than one hundred laborers on the farms. It was a privileged position for someone who had just arrived, and everyone noticed.

Days later the owner, Don Aurelio, turned up at the estate. He was a tall man with very fair blond hair, and everyone in the area knew him by the nickname “The Dutchwoman,” because no one was ignorant of what he liked. That morning, Cosme told Marcial that the boss wanted to see him alone, in the estate office.

Don Aurelio received him, made him walk in front of him, and slowly studied his shape and the way he spoke. Then he made him an offer: that he should come to his house on the days he was invited. In exchange, each time he would get a week off and be paid double. Marcial accepted without thinking.

“You won’t regret it,” the young master told him, looking him up and down.

A few days later, Cosme told him that that same afternoon he would drive him to the boss’s house, because Don Aurelio wanted him to spend the night there. Marcial told his family not to wait up for him, that he had some work for the young master. On the way, the manager told him that that night there would be a gathering of several gentlemen and that he was invited. It surprised him, but he put it down to the whims of the rich.

***

No sooner had he arrived than Don Aurelio received him and explained bluntly why he had brought him there. He knew what he did in the toilets of bars, for free, just because he liked it. He wanted him to do the same in his house, attending to some friends who enjoyed the company of men like him. That night there was a party, and his job was to be on hand for everyone, for whatever they asked of him.

He took him to what would be his room and opened a wardrobe. Out he took a black maid’s uniform, with a white apron, gloves and cap, a bra, panties, and black stockings with seams down the back, plus high-heeled shoes. He told him that would be his clothes, that he would always be dressed as a maid in service to the guests, and ordered him to strip and get dressed.

When Marcial was naked, Don Aurelio did not hold back. He knelt before him, weighed his testicles in his palm, kneaded them slowly, and licked the tip of his cock with his broad tongue, wetting the head until it began to swell. He took the whole thing into his mouth and sucked it hungrily, holding his thighs, until it was soaked with saliva and throbbing against his belly.

“As soon as you put on the dress,” he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, “you stop being Marcial. For me and for everyone, you’re Marcela.”

This is what I always wanted, she thought as she listened. What she was beginning to understand did not frighten her: it gave back things she had wanted since childhood.

She got dressed at once. The uniform clung to her body and came above the knee, emphasizing slim legs and a silhouette she herself did not know. With the young master’s help, she put on makeup: shadow on her eyelids, color on her cheeks, mascara lengthening her lashes, and a deep red lipstick that gave her mouth more volume.

Don Aurelio painted her nails and, doing so, noticed how rough they were from the fields and the elements. He promised her hand and face creams, so she could soften them. He placed the adjustable cap on her head and two clip-on earrings in her ears.

Then he took her in front of a full-length mirror in the adjoining room. When Marcela saw herself, she stood still, looking at herself as if she were discovering another person.

“You’re beautiful,” the young master murmured, and grabbed her by the waist to kiss her long and hard, thrusting his tongue into the roof of her mouth while he squeezed her ass with both hands over her skirt. He lifted her dress, pulled down her panties, and stroked her slit with a finger slicked with saliva, probing her hole until she moaned against his mouth. He had to touch up her lips afterward.

***

That first night only three of the boss’s friends came: Don Heriberto, Don Lisandro, and Don Casimiro, serious, proper men who would return on other occasions. With them Marcela’s job was to serve dinner and, once it was over, relieve them one by one. When coffee was served, Don Aurelio ordered her to kneel on the living-room rug, between the legs of his guests.

She began with Don Heriberto, who already had his fly open and his cock out, thick and veined. Marcela took it in her gloved hand, worked it slowly up and down while licking his balls one by one, and then took it into her mouth until the pubic hair brushed against her nose. She sucked it slowly, pressing her painted lips around the shaft, until the man grabbed her cap and started moving her head at the pace he wanted. When he came, he filled her mouth with thick milk and Marcela swallowed it all, without pulling away.

Don Lisandro preferred her to do it with her hand. She took it out carefully, slicked it with her own saliva, and started jerking him firmly, pinching the head between thumb and forefinger on each upward stroke, while with her other hand she caressed his balls. The young master made him moan with his eyes closed; he came in a long spurt that stained her white glove and splashed her apron.

Don Casimiro liked mouth. Marcela took him all at once, drove him down her throat and endured the gagging while the man shoved his hips against her face. She sucked him with slobber, strings of saliva hanging from her chin, until the bastard unloaded inside her mouth with a grunt, and she swallowed what she could and let the rest run from the corners of her lips.

Other nights it was Don Aurelio himself who mounted her in front of them: he would lay her face down on the table, roll her uniform up to her waist, pull down her panties to the backs of her knees, and drive his cock into her ass with a thrust, while the guests smoked cigars and applauded every push. Quiet, discreet evenings, they called them.

Once a month, however, the gathering became much livelier. At dusk, Marcela would start answering the doorbell, and the guests, who knew perfectly well what they were coming for, would receive her without the slightest ceremony, groping under her skirt as soon as they crossed the threshold, probing for her asshole with their fingers already in the hallway, rubbing their bulge against her ass before greeting the host.

There were six gentlemen, several of them young. One came from the capital, very at ease, and always brought two transvestite friends. One was Consuelo “the Morena,” tall, dark-skinned and very stylish, who came with her guitar and sang for everyone. The other, Amparo “the Thorn,” shorter, with big eyes and mouth, a fine ass and pretty legs, always in a miniskirt. The one from the capital, Aniceto “the Faraona,” as soon as he arrived dressed as a woman and joined in as one more.

At those parties, Don Aurelio himself wore makeup and women’s clothes, bragging like an old hand at being queer. The others only thought about enjoying the transvestite girls, including the Faraona, who liked being taken from behind hard. They took turns on the sofa, with their stockings fallen and their skirts bunched at the waist, while she screamed for them to go deeper, not to stop until they came inside. The young master, at times, also offered his ass, crouching with his hands on the back of an armchair and taking it gladly, moaning like a bitch every time one of the guests buried his cock up to the balls.

In the early hours, with almost everyone drunk, they would end up playing in a circle, holding one another not by the hands but by the cocks, shaking with laughter, cross-wanking each other until someone came over another’s stockings. By then few had escaped the others visiting their backside, and it was normal to see Marcela lying on the rug with two cocks thrusting together into her open ass, while a third worked its way through her mouth.

Marcela went back home the next day, or the day after, as if nothing had happened, with a sore ass and aching jaw, and resumed her life as husband and father. But The Dutchwoman asked more and more of her time, and that began to take its toll on his family. There were weeks when he stayed four or five days at the boss’s house, attending not only to his friends but to him as well, living with him like a couple. Don Aurelio said he had Marcela as both maid and wife: in winter she warmed his feet, and in summer she fanned him, and every night she opened her legs so he could fuck her back cunt before sleep.

***

On those nights, between the atmosphere and the drinks, control was often lost. The transvestite girls were used like prostitutes, because they were all paid, and it is well known that whoever pays gives the orders. Sometimes they staged games in which each person adopted a role. Don Aurelio’s favorite was the harem game: the guests played the masters and the transvestites slave odalisques, sold in a market to obey in everything whoever bought them afterward. They were made to parade naked through the room, with their cocks tied up with a silk ribbon, and whoever bought them took them to a corner to try them out: some sucking on their knees, others on all fours taking it from behind, all forced to call the man who currently possessed them “master.”

One of those dawns, one of those present proposed a different game: finding out which of the four paid queers — the Thorn, the Morena, the Faraona and Marcela — could take the most, by inserting large objects into them.

They put the four of them on their knees on chairs and tied their hands to the backrest. Thus restrained, they hiked their skirts up to their backs, pulled their panties down to their thighs, and slathered the entrance well with lubricant cream, pushing two and three fingers in to the knuckles, opening their hole slowly while with the other hand they jerked their cocks to get them in the mood. Marcela felt the fingers of a stranger going in and out of her ass with wet little slaps, and she could not help swiveling her hips, looking for more. They dealt out cards to decide who would be in charge of inserting the objects, and Don Renato got the job.

He started with ordinary dildos and gradually increased the size. Each one shoved it to the base, pulled it partway out, and rammed it back in, while the four transvestites moaned and arched their backs. Meanwhile, the rest bet money on whichever one they thought could take it best, cheering on their favorite as if it were a race. The uproar was guaranteed. The Morena was opened by a long, thick cucumber that seemed to disappear inside her; the Thorn endured a leather-wrapped broom handle; the Faraona screamed for them to put a whole eggplant inside her, and came without touching her cock, semen streaming down her thighs.

The girls endured those ever larger implements until what no one expected happened: Don Renato had the idea of trying a one-liter beer bottle. First the Morena and then the Thorn took it almost all the way, with difficulty, growling like beasts while the glass opened their ass until it gave way.

Then it was Marcela’s turn. She took the first part without a problem, even with pleasure, clenching her teeth and wiggling her ass to swallow it better, but when it passed halfway the bottle broke at the base. They pulled out the shards in a hurry, though they could not prevent cuts around the sphincter, and she began to bleed heavily.

The commotion turned to panic. One of the guests from the capital warned that it was terribly dangerous to take Marcela to a doctor: as soon as they asked questions, everything would come to light, and in those years a denunciation could fall on them under the law that persecuted people of their condition. One of those present, who had done military service in medical units and had a first-aid course, gave her the first treatment. Then they took off her women’s clothes, removed her makeup, loaded her into a car, and left her at her own front door in the early hours of the morning.

***

In that street, around four o’clock, the sound of a car engine was heard, something very unusual at that hour, and immediately after came someone’s groans of pain. It was Marcial, sitting on the ground against his doorway, doubled over in pain. A neighbor came over, asked what was wrong, and saw that his trousers were stained with blood. He alerted the family, who hurried him to the doctor’s office. Marcial confessed that he had slipped and fallen onto a bottle, and the doctor treated him for more than two weeks.

That accident was the point that changed everything. His wife had always sensed something: the three- and four-day trips to The Dutchwoman’s house, the money unfit for a field laborer, the barroom rumors. She never wanted to believe it and always defended her husband’s manhood, but this time she could no longer fool herself. She became convinced he was leading a double life and decided to separate, forbidding him to live with her and the children again.

Thrown out of his home, and despite how badly they had treated him the night he was injured, Marcela had no choice but to return to Don Aurelio’s house. From then on she lived there, as his maid and his lover, for the rest of her life.

She kept sleeping with the young master every day. Each morning, before serving him breakfast, she got into his bed, lifted her nightdress, and sat on the boss’s cock, riding him slowly until he grabbed her hips and thrust up from below, leaving her ass full of hot milk that then dripped down her thighs while she went to the kitchen. At night, after attending to the guests, Don Aurelio called her to his room, put her on all fours at the edge of the mattress, and fucked her calmly, biting her nape, while whispering in her ear that she was the best whore he had ever had. Sometimes Don Aurelio sent her to the house of other friends of his kind, to serve them or keep them company for a while, and she would return days later with the uniform wrinkled, her ass open, and her mouth still tasting of another man’s semen. Marcela had already accepted her life as a woman: she dressed as one while working in her uniform, and she also went out into the street as a woman.

Rumors even began to spread that she had fallen in love with a butcher she went to buy meat from for the house. They said the man, a big guy with thick hands, took her into the back room, laid her on the marble counter, and shoved into her a huge, thick cock that made her cry with pleasure. He fucked her ass with slow, deep thrusts, gripping her by the hair, and came inside her without pulling out, leaving her lying there with her skirt up around her waist, panting, until the semen began to seep from her backside. Marcela would leave the butcher shop with flushed cheeks, the bag of meat in her hand and her panties soaked, and that man gave her pleasure for a long time in secret from Don Aurelio, without the young master ever knowing.

Marcela sometimes remembered her married life, but at other times she thought that had been the best thing that could have happened to her. She was not going to spend her whole life pretending, when all she truly wanted was to be the woman of a man, or of several.

I know all this by reference, because by age I never came to know her. What is told here happened, more or less, from the last third of the 1960s. Recently, owing to the ailments of age, Marcela had to be hospitalized, and she was replaced by another queer they called Yolanda. As I already promised in another of my stories, I have at last told the adventures of the estate maid.