My Red Lingerie and the Stranger from the App

My family went away for a long weekend to my aunt’s place in Valdivia, and as soon as the car disappeared at the end of the street, something inside me let go. For weeks I’d had my hormones all stirred up, locked in my room watching femboy and cross-dressing videos late into the night, imagining myself in those clothes, with those gestures, with that soft skin that seemed made to be looked at. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was a need that tightened my chest every night and wouldn’t let me sleep.

That morning, with the house all to myself, I decided to stop imagining it and do it.

I took the subway downtown and walked to one of those malls that sell tiny, cheap clothes, with mannequins in poorly lit windows. I wandered the aisles pretending I was looking for a gift, until I saw it: a red lingerie set made of thin straps that fastened at several points across the body, with little buckles running from the neck to the thighs, like a web of silk and elastic. The saleswoman didn’t even look at me when I paid. I left with the bag pressed to my chest, my heart pounding as if I were carrying something stolen.

Back home I locked myself in the bathroom and put it on in front of the mirror. The straps crossed my skin and marked me in a way I’d never seen before. I turned, looked over my shoulder, touched my waist. For the first time I didn’t recognize myself, and I liked that more than I’d expected. The strap running down the front barely covered my cock, which was already pushing up on its own against the red fabric, and in back another strap disappeared between my ass cheeks, brushing right against my hole every time I moved.

I look sexy. I look really sexy.

I ran my hand over the lingerie, squeezing my dick through the fabric, and let out a long sigh. The tip got wet, and a tiny spot began to show through the red silk. I turned around, bent slightly in front of the mirror, and spread my cheeks with both hands to see my ass framed by the straps: pink, tight, ready. I licked a finger and ran it over my opening just to feel the shiver. A soft moan slipped out of me.

I took several photos with my phone, looking for the best light, hiding my face and showing everything else. In one I was seen from behind with my ass pushed out; in another, in profile, with my cock outlined under the fabric; in another, I had my mouth open and my tongue out. Then I opened one of those anonymous dating apps, created a profile with a fake name—Luna—and uploaded two of the pictures. I poured myself a beer, sat on the bed, and waited, half dying of shame, half desperate for someone to send me something filthy.

It didn’t take long.

***

The messages started coming one after another. Invitations, propositions, photos of hard cocks I hadn’t asked for. I read them while drinking, feeling powerful with each one, as if all that attention were a hot liquid rising inside me. I ignored most of them. But one made me stop.

The profile was of a man named Damián. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a black cap pulled low over his brows in the only photo he had. The message was direct, no beating around the bush.

“I really want to fuck you. Five minutes, that’s all. Your place or mine?” he wrote.

My first reaction was to close the conversation. A flat-out no. I just wanted to feel desired behind the screen, not go to a stranger’s apartment. But as I finished the beer, something warm started turning over in my head. I remembered my first time, years ago, how nervous I’d been and how good it had felt afterward. I remembered the weeks I’d spent wanting exactly this.

Just five minutes. What can happen in five minutes?

I answered before I could change my mind. We agreed I’d go to his place, in a building near the station, twenty minutes away by bus.

***

I left the lingerie on and pulled loose gym clothes over it: an oversized T-shirt, sweatpants, a cap. I put on just a bit of lipstick, enough to feel different, and slipped on a mask. It wasn’t cold that afternoon, but nerves had my teeth chattering and my hands were icy, my fingers clumsy as I locked the door.

The bus ride felt endless. I stared out the window without seeing anything, running through everything that could go wrong and, at the same time, unable to get off. Every time the bus braked, I felt the red strap tightening between my ass cheeks and remembered what I was going for. When I got to the building I texted that I was downstairs. A few minutes later I saw him come out through the glass door: taller than he’d seemed in the photo, with the same black cap and an easy, confident way of walking, as if nothing ever made him nervous.

We went up together in the elevator. He kept looking at me from the corner of his eye, up and down, until he broke the silence.

“Were the photos really yours?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, in a lower voice than I wanted. “Don’t doubt it.”

He didn’t answer. He just smiled to one side, as if he’d already made up his mind. His gaze dropped to the outline the lingerie made under my pants, and he ran his tongue over his teeth.

The apartment was small and tidy, with a single window facing other buildings. It smelled like coffee and something woody. He pointed to the couch with a gesture.

“Sit,” he said.

I sat on the edge, knees together, staring at the floor. Several seconds went by and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. He stood in front of me, arms crossed, watching me.

“Well?” he said at last. “Take your clothes off. All of them.”

***

I swallowed. First I took off the mask and left it on the cushion. Then I pulled my T-shirt over my head slowly, and as I did, the first red strap crossing my chest came into view. I heard him blow out air through his nose. I pushed my sweatpants down and kicked them aside, left only in the red lingerie, the straps marking every inch of me and my cock already half hard, pushing the silk forward. He started touching himself over his pants, unhurried, squeezing the bulge with an open palm, looking at me like I was something he’d been waiting for all day.

That turned me on. Feeling his gaze weighing on me gave me a courage I didn’t know I had.

I stood up and turned my back to him. I hooked my thumbs in the side strap and shifted it a little, arching my back, offering my near-bare ass with the single red strap disappearing between my cheeks. I reached back and spread one cheek to show him my ass better, the tight strap rubbing against my opening. I heard him move behind me and a short laugh leave his mouth.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “What a hot little thing you are. What a filthy little ass you’ve got.”

He came closer. I felt the heat of his body before I felt his hands. One gripped the back of my neck, firm but not painful, and gently pushed me down until I was on my knees in front of him. With the other hand he yanked down his pants and underwear. His cock sprang out, thick, hard, the head swollen and red, the main vein marked all the way down. It was inches from my face. I caught the warm smell of his skin, his sweat, and my mouth filled with saliva on its own.

I went along with it, not because he forced me, but because every order he gave lit something in me that had spent weeks begging to be lit.

“Open your mouth,” he said, gripping his cock at the base. “Stick out your tongue.”

I obeyed. He laid the hot tip on my outstretched tongue and rubbed it there for a few seconds, leaving a thick, bitter thread of pre-cum on me. Then he dragged it across my lips, smearing me as if he were painting me. I opened wider and let him in. He went in slowly at first, an inch, two, five, until I felt the head pushing against my palate. I closed my lips around him and started sucking him the way I’d seen in so many videos, first licking the tip, working my tongue up and down underneath, wetting the whole length with saliva.

He was breathing hard, head thrown back, one hand resting on the back of my neck, setting the rhythm.

“Like that,” he muttered. “Keep going, keep going like that. Take it all, bitch. All of it.”

He pushed deeper and I felt his cock hit the back of my throat. My eyes filled with tears at the first gagging reflex, but he didn’t pull out. On the contrary. He held my neck with both hands and started moving my head himself, fucking my mouth with short, deep thrusts. Saliva started dripping down my chin, hanging in long threads to my chest, staining the red lingerie. I sucked his balls whenever he let me breathe, licked them one by one, went back up the shaft sucking hard, and took him again all the way down.

I stayed on my knees for a couple of minutes, lost in the rhythm, feeling more like a woman than ever, more desired than I’d ever felt in my life. I dug my fingers into his thighs to steady myself. When I started to feel more confident and dared to look up with his cock in my mouth, he suddenly grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet.

“To the couch,” he said. “On all fours. Ass up.”

***

I obeyed without thinking. I leaned over the back of the couch, knees on the cushions and back arched. I shifted the red strap aside to clear my ass and spread my knees a little wider. I heard him open a condom wrapper, the latex crackling as he rolled it on. I wet my fingers with a little saliva and slipped one between my ass cheeks, pushing it in and out for a few seconds to get ready, trembling with anticipation and fear in equal measure. I could feel my own opening throbbing, tightening around my finger on its own.

I wasn’t fast enough. He pressed the tip against my hole, shoved once hard, and drove it in all at once, to the hilt, until I felt his balls slam against my perineum. A cry tore out of my throat before I could stop it. The burn shot all the way up my spine, as if they’d driven something hot inside me. I lurched forward, tears filling my eyes, his cock pulling out of me with a jerk.

“Slowly, please,” I said, voice breaking. “That hurt, it hurt a lot.”

“You should be used to it by now,” he answered, gripping my waist and pulling me back again. “Don’t complain, bitch. You can take it.”

But he still eased up. He got me back on all fours and this time he went in more slowly, inch by inch, pushing and pulling back, pushing and pulling back, giving my ass time to open for him. I breathed deeply, holding on to the edge of the couch, scared and turned on at the same time. I felt every millimeter going in, the skin stretching, the muscles yielding, his cock filling me up to a place I hadn’t known I had.

Little by little the pain turned into something else. My body opened, loosened, and began to take him. When he noticed I was no longer tensing up, he sped up. The first moans escaped me, sharp and involuntary. My own cock, trapped under the red strap, started bouncing against my belly with each thrust, leaking fluid and staining the couch.

“Ah, yes, like that,” I gasped, unable to keep quiet. “Fuck me, fuck me hard.”

He slapped my ass hard, the sound echoing through the apartment.

“Quiet,” he said through his teeth. “Shhh. You can be heard all over the building.”

I bit my lip and held it in. But he kept going, faster and faster, gripping my hips with both hands and driving himself in to the hilt, pulling out almost all the way and slamming back in. The couch creaked beneath me, my cheeks bounced against his stomach with a wet smack, and there came a point where I couldn’t hold back and moaned again, this time longer, more surrendered, almost like a muffled howl.

He yanked my hair back with one hand and held my head, forcing me to arch even more. The other hand reached around front, found my cock dripping under the red strap, and grabbed it, starting to jerk me off at the same rhythm he was fucking me. I lost my mind. I didn’t know whether to push back to take him deeper or forward to fuck his fist.

“Look how hard you get, little slut,” he whispered in my ear without stopping his thrusts. “You get hard because I’m inside you. Say it. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m your bitch,” I panted. “I’m your bitch, your slut, whatever you want.”

“That’s it. That’s what I like.”

I was enjoying it like never before. I felt completely his, completely female, exactly what I’d imagined during all those nights in front of the screen. I could feel my climax building in my balls, rising, and I let out a long moan while he squeezed my cock harder in his fist.

***

It hadn’t even been five minutes when he tore away from me all at once, pulling out with a jerk that left my ass open, throbbing, empty. I heard him rip off the condom and toss it to the floor. He turned me by the shoulders and shoved me down again.

“On your knees,” he said. “Stick out your tongue and look at me. Don’t let a drop fall.”

He started jerking himself off over me with a hand slick with saliva and my own juices, his cock shining, the vein bulging, moving fast and rough. As I looked up at him, I saw him clearly for the first time. He was more handsome than the photo had shown: defined body, short stubble beard, eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made me feel small and powerful at the same time. I stared at him for a second, hypnotized, tongue out and hands open on my thighs.

Then I felt the first warm spurts landing on my tongue and lips. There were many of them. One hit my cheek, another crossed my nose, two more filled my mouth with thick, salty, warm semen that pooled on my tongue and wouldn’t go down. It dripped from the corner of my mouth to my chin, fell onto the red lingerie and across my chest. I gagged on instinct, disgusted, but his voice held me in place like a hand.

“Swallow it,” he ordered, low and rough. “All of it. And finish cleaning me up.”

I tried to do as I was told. I closed my lips and swallowed in one gulp: I felt the semen slide thickly down my throat, leaving a hot trail to my stomach. My eyes filled with tears and my stomach churned, but I recovered and leaned toward his cock, still dripping fat drops from the tip. I took it in both hands and ran my tongue over all his skin, licking his head, the shaft, the folds where the last threads had clung, until he was clean. He watched me without blinking, one hand resting lightly on my head.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

I opened it. He tilted his head a little, inspecting me, then ran his thumb inside my lip.

“There’s still something here. Swallow it.”

I gathered what was left with my tongue, took it to the back of my mouth, and swallowed again, and this time I felt that warm, thick liquid slowly sliding down my throat, mixed with saliva and the taste of latex. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was smiling.

“Very good,” he said, stroking my cheek with his thumb, wiping away what remained at the corner of my mouth and putting that into my mouth too. “Suck. You’re quite the little bitch.”

I sucked his finger until he pulled it out himself. That word, said like that, went through me completely. It didn’t offend me. I liked it.

***

I stayed on my knees, still shaking, my own cock hard and dripping under the red lingerie without having finished, while he pulled his pants up as if nothing had happened and walked toward the kitchen. I heard him open the fridge. He came back with two beers, handed me one, and drank his almost in one gulp, standing there and looking at his phone.

He pointed to the couch with his chin. I sat down, still in the lingerie, semen drying on my chest and chin, sipping the cold beer and not really knowing what to do with my body or my face.

“Finish it and go,” he said without looking up from the screen. “My mom gets here in half an hour and I want to clean up.”

For a second I felt bad, used, discarded like an empty wrapper. Jerk, I thought. But, for some reason, at almost the same time, I felt an enormous urge to laugh. The whole situation was so absurd, so unlike the romantic stories I’d told myself in my head, that something in me found it hilarious.

I got dressed in silence, hiding the stained lingerie under my gym clothes again, feeling my ass throb with every movement and a warm thread of semen and lubricant sliding down my thigh. I put on my cap, my mask, finished the beer in a couple of swallows, and left without saying goodbye. He didn’t even look up.

On the bus ride back I wore a strange smile under the fabric, watching the city pass by the window, squeezing my thighs together every time I felt that burn of having been fucked again. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t sad. I was, above all, aroused.

I got home with my body still hot, with the memory of his hands and his voice turning over in my head. That night, alone in my room, with the red lingerie on again in front of the mirror, I touched myself thinking about every detail. The slap on my ass, the command to be quiet, the cock filling me to the bottom, the warm semen sliding down my throat, the word bitch said in that gravelly voice. I pushed two fingers into my still-sensitive ass while I jerked my cock with the other hand, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t scream.

Three times, before falling asleep, I went back to that nameless apartment. And I knew, with a warm, new certainty, that that afternoon had not been the last.