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 coated in dust. I’m twenty-nine, and yet every time I look at Carla I feel like a kid who’s just done something unforgivable. At thirty, she seems to have gained in composure everything I lost over the past few months. The place was perfect for what she had called “reconciliation”: an adobe house with red tiles on the outskirts of a sleepy town, surrounded by dry hills, with no neighbors in sight. Just the wind and the smell of hot earth.

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

There was nothing of mine inside. No jeans, no T-shirts, no boxers. In their place were lace thongs, padded bras, short cotton skirts, low-cut tops, high-heeled sandals, and a makeup case full of cosmetics.

Then I remembered that, when I stopped by to pick her up that morning, I had 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, seated, not rushing.

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

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

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

I thought about shouting at her, grabbing my things and getting the hell out of there. But I looked into her eyes and knew she meant it. If I left at that moment, it would 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 stripped in front of the large mirror that covered half the wall. I chose what seemed least humiliating: a black lace thong whose thin straps stretched over my hips, a short green crop top that hung loose over my flat chest, a white pleated skirt that any breeze could lift, and white low-heeled shoes, barely three centimeters high, the most discreet of the bunch. The fabric was tight and the lace rubbed my skin uncomfortably, 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 man dressed as a woman, his legs still hairy in contrast to the skirt, heat rising up my neck and I didn’t know whether it was anger or shame. I thought of my old man. If he saw me like this, he’d cut me out of the inheritance for sure.

—You look pathetic, Martín —she said, coming closer and lifting the skirt I was trying to hold down—. A cheater dressed up as 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 following days passed in a fog of humiliation. She made me remove all my body hair with a cream that stung and left my skin pink and hypersensitive. She did my makeup 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, nearly transparent camisoles, floral dresses that opened with any movement. The cabin seemed to have a mirror on every wall, as if she had put 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. All I felt was contained rage, regret, and the stupid hope that in the end she would forgive me.

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

—Tonight you’re going out dressed as Martina —she said, while doing my makeup heavier than usual: smoky shadows, false lashes, a dark matte red lipstick—. I’m taking you dancing in town.

She put me in a short, shiny black crop top, padded in the cups to simulate a tiny bust, leaving my stomach bare. The skirt was made of synthetic leather, tight over my shaved hips, with a side zipper that made it even shorter. Underneath, a red lace thong. Sky-high platform heels that forced me to measure every step. She clipped in extensions so my hair fell long and wavy over my shoulders. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself: an unreal, feminine version of me looked back.

***

We got to the club close to midnight. It was a small place, with pink and blue neon lights flickering over the dance floor, reggaeton and cumbia pounding in our chests, the smell of warm beer and cheap perfume. People were dancing, laughing, shouting into each other’s ears. Carla took me straight to the bar, where a man soon came over after seeing the two of us alone. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with brown skin, wearing a fitted T-shirt that showed off his arms and dark jeans. He looked a little over thirty.

He stayed talking with Carla for a long time. I just watched, not understanding what they were saying. My blood was boiling, but by then I had 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’ll be no 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 each step clumsy, 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 against my ear, his warm breath on my neck—. Relax and follow my lead.

His hands dropped to my waist, guiding me. Reggaeton filled the air and he started moving against me, his firm chest against my back, his hips keeping a slow rhythm. 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 just enough, brushing over freshly shaved skin—. That skirt suits you perfectly. Shows exactly what it’s supposed to show.

The music suddenly got louder and he spun me so I was dancing facing him. His eyes were locked on my painted lips, my made-up eyes. He kissed my neck with a brush of his lips that made my whole skin prickle. Then another kiss, lower, on my collarbone. His hands rose over my bare stomach, his fingers gently pinching near my navel.

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

He gave a low laugh 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 pushing in, tasting of beer and tobacco. We danced like that for a long time, a slow grind, his hands exploring, one sliding up my back under the top, the other squeezing me over the skirt. He rubbed himself against me shamelessly, whispering things that burned: “you feel so good,” “just imagine what I’m going to do to you later.” My face was burning with shame, but the constant friction, the heat of his body, and the music that never stopped were tightening something inside me I hadn’t expected to feel.

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

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

***

We went back in Damián’s car, because on the way there we had taken a remís. The ride was short but charged with electricity. I was in the passenger seat, and he kept resting his hand on my thigh, slowly moving it higher. When it went too far, I stopped his hand with mine. He just smiled, not pushing it.

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

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

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

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

I pulled the leather skirt down, exposing the thong, and felt the cool air against my shaved skin. He took off his pants and boxer briefs. His cock came out hard, thick, much bigger than mine, the tip already glistening. He turned me against the wall, placed my hands on the cold cement, and spread 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 prepared me 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 acknowledge, didn’t move from there. One finger slid in slowly, twisting, opening me up. Then two, stretching carefully, in and out until I felt the muscle give. It didn’t hurt. Just pressure, a strange sensation, but not entirely bad. When I was more relaxed, he pressed 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, the thickness opening me slowly, filling me without much pain thanks to the preparation. When he was all the way inside he stayed still for a second, letting me get used to it. Then he began to move, slowly at first, with gentle thrusts that brushed a spot that made my whole body tense 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 deep inside every time he hit that spot.

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

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

I felt the orgasm building without anyone touching me. My cock was leaking, hard against the thong, and when Damián came—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’s staying for the weekend. Maybe I’ll forgive you, if you keep obeying this well.

I stayed there, sprawled out, my traitorous body satisfied for the first time on the entire 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 part wasn’t that certainty, but discovering that a part of me was no longer so sure it wanted to be.