My Girlfriend Dressed Me as a Woman to Forgive Me

We arrived at the cabin as dusk fell, after three hours on dirt roads that left my car covered in dust. I’m twenty-nine, and still, every time I look at Carla I feel like a boy who’s just done something unforgivable. At thirty, she seems to have gained in composure everything I lost over the last few months. The place was perfect for what she had called “reconciliation”: an adobe house with red roof tiles on the outskirts of a sleeping village, surrounded by dry hills, with no neighbors in sight. Only the wind and the smell of hot earth.

We unloaded the suitcases and I went into the bedroom first. I wanted to shower and, once and for all, start talking things through with her. I opened my suitcase on the bed and froze.

None of my things were there. No jeans, no T-shirts, no boxers. In their place were lace thongs, padded bras, short cotton skirts, low-cut tops, heeled sandals, and a toiletry bag full of makeup.

Then I remembered that, when I picked her up that morning, I’d given her the car keys so she could load the luggage while I finished a coffee in her kitchen. She had more than enough time to go through everything and swap my clothes for that. Now I understood why she had insisted so much that I stay calm, sit down, not rush.

—What is all this, Carla? —I asked, coming out into the living room with a red thong dangling from two fingers, feeling ridiculous just touching it.

She was leaning against the kitchen counter, wearing very short denim shorts and a white T-shirt. She looked at me with a calm that was scarier than any shout.

—I took all your clothes out before we left —she said, folding her arms—. If you want to stay here and have even the slightest chance that I’ll forgive you, you’re going to wear what’s in that suitcase. If not, you walk to town and take the first bus out. Eight years together, Martín, and you paid me back by sleeping with someone from your office. This is the least you deserve if you really want to show me you’re sorry.

I thought about shouting at her, grabbing my things, and getting the hell out of there. But I looked her in the eyes and knew she meant it. If I left right then, it would all be over forever. And I didn’t want it to be over.

—Fine —I said, swallowing hard—. I’ll do it. Just for you.

I went back to the bedroom and undressed in front of the large mirror covering half the wall. I chose what seemed least humiliating to me: a black lace thong whose thin straps stretched over my hips, a short green crop top hanging loose over my flat chest, a white pleated skirt that any breeze could lift, and white low-heeled shoes, barely three centimeters, the most discreet of the lot. The fabric was tight and the lace rubbed my skin in an uncomfortable way, the straps digging a little into the flesh. I came out slowly, my face burning.

—Stand in front of the living room mirror —she ordered.

I stood there, staring at my reflection: a twenty-nine-year-old guy dressed as a woman, my legs still covered in hair that contrasted with the skirt, heat climbing up my neck that I couldn’t tell was anger or shame. I thought of my old man. If he saw me like this, he’d cut me out of the will for sure.

—You look pathetic, Martín —she said, coming closer and lifting the skirt I was trying to hold down—. A cheating bastard dressed up like a little girl. I want you to say it.

—I’m pathetic... I’m a cheating little girl —I muttered, hating myself with every syllable.

***

The next few days passed in a haze of humiliation. She made me get completely depilated with a cream that stung and left my skin pink and hypersensitive. She put makeup on me for the first time in my life: foundation, eyeliner that made my eyes look bigger, a red lipstick that made my lips look swollen. Every morning she handed me a different outfit. Lace shorts that rode up on their own, almost transparent camisoles, floral dresses that opened with the slightest movement. The cabin seemed to have a mirror on every wall, as if she had placed them there on purpose so I couldn’t escape my own image.

After every change of clothes, she made me repeat phrases that scraped my throat raw: “thank you for making me pretty,” “I’m Carla’s useless maid.” I served the food, washed the dishes, walked around the patio in heels that made me wobble on the hot tiles. The only things I felt were bottled-up rage, regret, and the stupid hope that at the end of all this she would forgive me.

One night, after several days of the same routine, she announced we were going out.

—Tonight you’re going out dressed as Martina —she said, while she put more makeup on me than usual: smoky eyes, false lashes, a dark red matte lipstick—. I’m taking you dancing in town.

She put me in a short, shiny black top with padding in the cups to fake a tiny chest, leaving my stomach bare. The skirt was made of faux leather, tight around my shaved hips, with a side zipper that made it even shorter. Underneath, a red lace thong. Platform heels, sky-high, forcing me to watch every step. She clipped in extensions so my hair would fall long and wavy over my shoulders. I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself: an unreal, feminine version of me looked back.

***

We got to the club around midnight. It was a small place, with pink and blue neon lights blinking over the dance floor, reggaeton and cumbia thumping in my chest, the smell of warm beer and cheap perfume in the air. People were dancing, laughing, shouting into each other’s ears. Carla took me straight to the bar, where a man soon came over when he saw just the two of us alone. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, wearing a tight T-shirt that showed off his arms and dark jeans. He looked a little over thirty.

He stood talking with Carla for a long time. I only watched, not understanding what they were saying. My blood was boiling, but by then I had already accepted that this was her revenge, and that my role was to take it.

—Martina, say hi to Damián —she said. Then she leaned in and whispered in my ear—: You’d better keep him happy, or there won’t be any forgiveness worth a damn. —And she gently pushed me toward him.

Damián took my hand and led me to the dance floor. At first I danced stiffly, the heels making every step awkward, the skirt riding up with every movement. He laughed and pressed me against his body without taking his eyes off me.

—Easy, pretty girl —he whispered into my ear, his warm breath on my neck—. Relax and follow my lead.

His hands slid to my waist, guiding me. Reggaeton filled the air and he started moving against me, his firm chest against my back, his hips marking a slow beat. I felt his erection pressing through the jeans, hard against my body. I tried to pull away a little, but he held me tighter.

—Look how you move —he said, sliding a hand down my thigh, lifting the hem a little, brushing the freshly shaved skin—. That skirt suits you perfectly. It shows exactly what it’s supposed to show.

The music kicked up and he spun me around so I danced facing him. His eyes were locked on my painted lips, on my made-up eyes. He kissed my neck with a brush of lips that raised gooseflesh all over me. Then another kiss, lower, on my collarbone. His hands slid up my bare abdomen, fingers pinching gently near my navel.

—No... please —I murmured, but my voice was lost among the speakers and the shouting.

He chuckled softly against my ear.

—Shhh, Carla’s watching us. Do it for her. Let go, Martina. I know you want to try it.

He kissed me on the mouth, his tongue forcing its way in, tasting of beer and tobacco. We danced like that for a good while, grinding slowly, his hands exploring, one sliding up my back under the top, the other squeezing me over the skirt. He rubbed against me without trying to hide it, whispering things that burned: “you’re so hot,” “imagine what I’m going to do to you later.” My face burned with shame, but the constant friction, the heat of his body, and the music that never stopped slowly tightened something inside me that I hadn’t expected to feel.

After several songs he dragged me to a dim corner, against a wall where the lights flickered. He kissed me again, deep, while one hand lowered the skirt zipper just a little. Right then Carla appeared.

—Let’s go back to the cabin —she said, with a half smile—. Let’s end the night right.

***

We went back in Damián’s car, since on the way there we had taken a hired ride. The trip was short but charged with electricity. I sat in the passenger seat, and he kept putting his hand on my thigh and slowly moving it higher. When it went too far, I stopped his hand with mine. He just smiled, without insisting.

When we arrived, Carla led us to the bedroom. Damián gently pushed me against the wall. She sat on a chair to the side, phone in hand, filming in silence, with a smile stretched ear to ear across her face.

—Take off the skirt —Damián said, undoing his jeans.

—No, wait. I’m not what I seem. This has already gone too far —I stammered.

—Shhh. I know everything. Carla told me —he replied, unbothered—. She told me what you did to her. So you’d better behave.

I pulled down the leather skirt, revealing the thong, and felt the cool air against my shaved skin. He pulled down his pants and boxers. His cock came out hard, thick, much bigger than mine, the tip already shiny. He turned me against the wall, placed my hands on the cold cement, and parted my legs a little with his knee. Everything was happening too fast and I didn’t know how to react.

—I’m going to go slow, pretty girl. Relax and breathe —he whispered, kissing the back of my neck while he got me ready with spit and his fingers.

The idea of being penetrated by another man terrified me. I wanted to run. And yet, a tiny part of me, one I didn’t want to admit existed, didn’t move an inch. One finger slid in slowly, twisting, opening me. Then two, stretching me carefully, in and out until I felt the muscle give. It didn’t hurt. Just pressure, a strange sensation but not a bad one. When I was more relaxed, he set the tip against my entrance.

—Take a deep breath... that’s it, very good —he said, and pushed in little by little, centimeter by centimeter.

I felt him entering me, the thickness opening me slowly, filling me with not much pain thanks to the preparation. When he was all the way in, he stayed still for a second, letting me get used to him. Then he started moving, slowly at first, with gentle thrusts that brushed a spot that made my whole body tense all at once.

—Say you like it, Martina —he demanded, picking up the pace a little, his hands gripping my hips—. I want to hear it.

—I like it... I like it like this —I repeated between gasps, and this time the pleasure was real, intense, rising from inside every time he hit that spot.

He took me to the bed and put me on all fours, the short top riding up and leaving my flat chest exposed. He entered me again, deeper, with a steady rhythm, hard but controlled. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixed with my moans, which I could no longer hold back. Carla was filming, leaning in now and then to catch my face: makeup smeared with sweat, glassy eyes, mouth parted.

—Look at your ex moaning, Carla —Damián said, pounding faster—. Eight years with you and look what he was good for.

I felt the orgasm coming without anyone touching me. My cock was leaking, hard against the thong, and when Damián finished —hot, abundant, spilling until it ran down my thighs— I exploded too: a long, trembling orgasm that left me panting, collapsed on the sheets.

I fell onto my side, exhausted, my body still vibrating. Carla came over, clapping slowly.

—Very good, Martina —she said, with a cold but satisfied voice—. Damián is staying for the weekend. Maybe I’ll forgive you if you keep obeying this well.

I stayed there, lying down, my treacherous body satisfied for the first time all trip and my head in pieces. I thought that, after that night, maybe I would never be the same Martín as before. And the most disturbing thing wasn’t that certainty, but discovering that a part of me was no longer so sure it wanted to be.