My Brother-in-Law Discovered My Secret in Front of the Mirror

I’m a closet transvestite, and until that day no one knew my secret. Or rather, no one knew it yet. I’m twenty-two and still live at my parents’ house, in a neighborhood where everyone knows everyone and the walls seem to have ears. That’s why I learned from an early age to keep what I liked very, very well hidden.

It all started when my sister Carla asked for permission to use our house as storage for the theater group she belongs to. They brought box after box of costumes: racks with dresses, bags full of wigs, a trunk packed with shoes and makeup. They stored everything in the upstairs room, the one we almost never use, and left, promising to come back the following weekend.

I couldn’t think about anything else. Every time I passed that door, I felt a tingle in my stomach. All that women’s clothing within arm’s reach, waiting for me. I just needed the house to be empty.

The chance came on a Tuesday afternoon. My parents went out to visit some cousins and Carla was at work until night. I was alone. I went up the stairs two at a time, stepped into the room, and locked the door with the bolt.

***

I opened the first rack with trembling hands. There were dresses of every style, leftovers from old productions. I chose a pink one, with loose sleeves but cinched at the waist, so short it barely covered my thighs. I put it on slowly, feeling the fabric glide over my skin.

Then came the wig: black curls falling over my shoulders. I sat down in front of the vanity mirror and opened the makeup case. I lined my eyes, shaded them, and put on a deep red lipstick. When I looked up, the person staring back at me wasn’t me. It was a girl.

God, I look so good.

I stood up and posed. I swayed my hips, ran a hand through my hair, pretended to walk in imaginary heels. I acted like a girl, talked like a girl, imagined someone desiring me. In that tiny dress I felt like one of those high-priced date girls, the kind who charge for a night and know everything.

I tried on two other dresses before settling on that one. A black one, too tight, clinging where it shouldn’t; another blue one with a low neckline, which I ruled out for fear of snagging it. But the pink one had something about it. It gave me a freedom I didn’t know I had. In front of the mirror I stopped being the quiet boy everyone knew and became someone capable of holding a gaze, of biting her lip without shame, of liking herself.

The arousal hit me so fast it caught me off guard. I rubbed myself over the fabric, gently at first, then harder, watching myself the whole time in the mirror. The sight of myself transformed turned me on more than anything else. I didn’t last long. When I came, I caught everything in the palm of my hand so I wouldn’t stain the borrowed dress.

And right at that moment, I heard the sound of the lock turning.

***

Someone was trying to get in. But I had locked the bolt; I’d checked it. Then I heard the unmistakable jingle of keys testing the lock from the outside. My heart stopped.

I panicked. I was made up, wearing a wig, stuffed into that tiny dress, and on top of that my hand was full of semen and I had nothing to wipe myself with. I didn’t have time to think of an elegant escape. In desperation, I did the only thing that came to mind: I brought my hand to my mouth and swallowed my own semen. I felt that thick, warm fluid slide slowly down my throat just as the door opened.

It was Damián, my sister’s boyfriend.

He stood there in the doorway, the keys still hanging from his fingers. The first thing he did was laugh, a short burst of surprise. But I, who had practically fallen to my knees, begged him with my hands pressed together to close the door. And something in his face changed.

The laughter vanished and was replaced by something else. An expression of calm, of power, of someone who has just found something very valuable. He closed the door behind him without hurrying and looked me over from head to toe.

—I came to get a box Carla forgot —he said slowly—. I wasn’t expecting to find this.

—It’s… it’s a joke —I stammered—. I was setting up a prank for a friend, I swear.

He tilted his head and smirked.

—Black curly wig, lipstick, eyeshadow, a little slutty dress… —he listed, savoring every word—. What would your parents say if they saw you like this?

I felt the blood drain from my body.

—No —I said, almost voiceless—. Please, don’t say anything. Please.

***

Damián came closer without rushing. He was a big guy, broad-shouldered, who rode a bike every weekend, and it showed in his legs. He pulled a chair over from the corner and sat down in front of me, knees apart.

—Stay there, on your knees —he ordered. And he used that word on purpose, in the feminine, so I’d understand what this was about.

I was still kneeling on the rug, the pink dress hiked up over my thighs. I looked at him, not knowing what to do, though deep down I knew perfectly well. He unzipped his pants and took out his cock, still soft, holding it with two fingers like an invitation.

—If you want this to stay between us —he said—, you know what you have to do, little sister-in-law.

Shame burned across my face. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see myself, so I wouldn’t think too much, and moved forward on my knees until I was between his legs. I opened my mouth and took it in.

I sucked him slowly, not really knowing how, just letting myself be carried along. I could feel it growing in my mouth, getting hard and hot against my tongue. He didn’t rush me; he leaned back in the chair and let me work, letting out an occasional sigh of satisfaction. One of his hands settled on my wig, not to push me, just to hold me there.

—That’s it, nice and slow —he murmured—. That dress looks good on you.

The comment shot through me. I didn’t want to admit how much I was enjoying it, how much the idea of being at his mercy, dressed like a girl and obeying, was turning me on. I sucked him harder, with more devotion, until I noticed his breathing speeding up and his body going rigid.

—Show me a clean mouth, little sister-in-law —he said through clenched teeth.

***

He came in my mouth with a stifled growl. I took it all: his hot semen mixing with my saliva, filling my tongue. For a second I hesitated. But he was staring straight at me, waiting, so I swallowed. I felt that taste slide down my throat, then I opened my mouth wide and showed him my empty, clean tongue, just as he’d asked.

He nodded, satisfied, and tucked himself back into his pants without looking away from me.

—Good girl —he said—. This stays between us, understood? It’s still our secret, or you’re going to have a very bad time.

He took the box he’d supposedly come for, gave me one last head-to-toe look, and left the room. I heard his footsteps go down the stairs and the front door close.

I stayed there on my knees, processing what had just happened. I bit my lower lip, still painted red, and an absurd thought crossed my mind: his semen tasted better than mine.

I shook my head, chasing the thought away.

—Enough —I told myself out loud—. Change fast, before someone comes back.

***

I took off the dress, the wig, wiped off my makeup with a towelette, and left everything exactly as it had been. I closed the racks, arranged the boxes, checked that no trace was left behind. When I went back down to my room, my hands were still shaking.

A few minutes passed. Just as I was starting to breathe easy, a message arrived on my phone. One of those you can only view once before it disappears. It was from Damián.

“Quiet, or I’ll spread it.”

I opened the video with my stomach in knots. And there I was: kneeling, with the black curly wig, the pink dress, and smeared lipstick, sucking his cock and then showing my mouth and tongue after swallowing. The image was sharp, shot from above, from his point of view.

I was in shock. It took me a few seconds to understand where that recording had come from. Then I remembered: the glasses. Damián wore sporty glasses with a tiny camera on the bridge, the kind cyclists use to film their rides. He’d had them on the whole time. He’d recorded everything.

The video disappeared from the screen as soon as it ended.

With clumsy fingers, I wrote him: “I’ll never say anything, I swear. Please delete that.”

The reply took barely an instant.

“No, little sister-in-law. That way I make sure I get more blowjobs in the future.”

***

I left the phone on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I should have felt fear, or anger, or shame. And I did feel all three, of course. But underneath all of it there was something else, something I didn’t dare name: a dark thrill at the idea of being trapped, of belonging to him, of him being able to ask me for whatever he wanted and me not being able to refuse.

The following weeks proved it. Damián kept his promise. He sought me out several times, almost always in his car, parked in some alley where no one passed by. He made me dress up, made me kneel between the seats, and I obeyed each time with less resistance and more desire.

I learned to recognize the tone of his messages, that curt way of telling me where and when. I learned to always keep something hidden in my backpack: lipstick, a pair of stockings, the wig folded inside a bag. He told me it was to leave no trace, but the truth is I started wanting it. I waited for his messages with a mix of fear and anxiety I didn’t know how to turn off.

He noticed. He could tell I was no longer doing it just because of the video, and that seemed to please him even more. “You love it, little sister-in-law,” he’d say, and I couldn’t answer that he was right.

But those encounters, what happened inside that car, and everything he taught me afterward, are another story. One I’ll tell you in full detail later on.