My Trans Friend and the Night That Nearly Broke Her
Bruna is one of the people I love most in this world and, probably, the one I admire most. I met her at university, when we were both hauling notebooks from one classroom to another and she was still answering to another name. Back then she was a boy many people called “effeminate” with that cruelty disguised as a joke that hallways are full of. I liked her from the very first day, and over time we became inseparable.
When we went out partying, she dressed as what she felt she was: a woman. And the truth is, she was gorgeous. She had a way of moving, of laughing with her head thrown back, that turned heads in any place. She flirted with everyone, even me, and she quickly realized that dressed as a girl she had a success she had never known before.
One day she took the plunge. She started sleeping with men for money. She didn’t do it out of need; her family gave her enough. She did it for thrills and, above all, for the turn-on. She liked feeling desired, seeing how far that new power went that she discovered in the mirror every morning.
With each passing month she felt more and more like a woman. She started hormones, started transition. The boy from the hallways was now the past; now she was Bruna, and in barely a year and a half her appearance changed in a way that left me speechless.
***
When she had her breasts done, she became an absolute stunner. People looked at her in the street, and that new beauty made her client base grow without her having to go looking for it. What had begun as a game and for “easy” money — which is never easy, I learned before she did — slowly turned into her way of life.
And that life comes at a price. I started noticing it a few months after she threw herself fully into the trade. Bruna had been one of those students who studied and got good grades, but little by little she started missing class. She kept passing, kept moving forward, but with lower marks and a different shadow in her eyes.
What hurt me most was the change in her character. The cheerful girl, the joker, the one who could laugh at anything, gradually became more cynical, harsher. It was as if someone were blowing out her spark one candle at a time every night, without her even noticing.
Shortly before exams she missed several days in a row. I wrote to her to see what was going on and she didn’t answer. I asked other classmates and nobody knew anything. I started to get genuinely worried.
A few days later she showed up at the university with bruises on her arms and a poorly concealed cut on her cheekbone. I froze in place when I saw her. She didn’t need to say a word: I guessed what had happened. I hugged her without a single word and she, who had held it together all morning, broke down and started crying against my shoulder.
***
That day she didn’t tell me anything. It would take weeks before she did, and when she did it was in a low voice, one rainy afternoon, staring at the cup of tea growing cold in her hands. I already imagined where the story was going, but hearing it from her mouth was something else.
Two men had hired her. In the ad everything seemed normal: a date, a rate, a discreet hotel on the outskirts. But what those two were looking for wasn’t sex. They were looking to dominate her, humiliate her, hurt her. Only you don’t put that in a message.
The meeting started like any other. They chatted for a while, poured her a drink, asked what she felt like. They flattered her, told her how beautiful she was, how good she smelled. She relaxed. It was her job, and she knew the drill.
Bruna knelt between them and pulled their cocks out of their trousers slowly, like someone unwrapping a candy. They were both hard, one in each hand, and she took them into her mouth in turns. First the taller one: she ran her tongue all over his cock, from his balls to the head, then took it in to the hilt, until the tip hit the back of her throat and her eyes filled with tears. She sucked hard, pressing her lips on every upward stroke, hollowing her cheeks, leaving strings of saliva dripping down her chin and wetting her tits. The other grabbed her head and turned her toward him too, and she switched cocks without letting go of the first, spitting on them, licking them together, rubbing them over her face while the two of them told her how well she sucked them, what a whore she was, how much they were going to enjoy it. One of them returned the favor: he laid her on the bed, spread her legs and ran his tongue over her ass and her cock, sucking her until Bruna arched her back and panted with her eyes closed. He licked her balls, bit the inside of her thighs, pushed two fingers in with lubricant and moved them slowly until she started rocking her hips against his hand. Up to that point, everything was still within what you might expect.
Then they suggested tying her up. “Part of the game,” they said. She agreed, because up to that moment they had behaved normally and because a lot of clients liked that kind of thing. They tied her wrists behind her back with a rope that bit into her skin and left her face down on the mattress, ass in the air and her face pressed into the sheets.
And that was where everything changed.
What started with a few light spanks quickly turned into belt lashes that sliced across her skin and knocked the breath out of her. The belt whistled before it split her buttocks and left red bands that swelled within seconds. Bruna protested. One of them grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back and spat in her ear:
—Scream, bitch, we’re going to fuck you up good.
The blows kept coming. She thrashed, complained, tried to wriggle free of the ropes, but tied up and face down she couldn’t do much. The other held her by the nape while the first kept punishing her without listening to a single word she said. They yanked her legs apart, and the taller one spat in his hand, smeared his cock with it and shoved it in with one single thrust, all the way in, without waiting for her to get used to it.
—Look at her clenching her ass, the slut —the other laughed—. She was made for this.
They fucked her roughly, first one and then the other, taking turns as if she were nothing more than an object passed from hand to hand. The first one fucked her while gripping the ropes, using them like reins, tugging her wrists to bury himself deeper with every thrust. The impact of hips against buttocks sounded dry, brutal, mixed with Bruna’s muffled moans and the two of them laughing. When he pulled out he spat on her ass and shoved it back in with a hard slam that ripped a scream out of her. The other waited on his knees by her head, pounding away right in front of her face, and shoved it into her mouth every time she tried to speak, pushing it down her throat to shut her up. They took turns without pause: the one who had been behind moved to the front, grabbed her jaw and fucked her mouth, tasting her own flavor on his own cock, while the other positioned himself between her legs and entered her again. The first few thrusts were slow, almost calculated so she would understand she was at their mercy; after that there was no calculation left, only violence, only flesh slamming against flesh, only two cocks going in and out of her as if they wanted to break her from the inside.
The one waiting masturbated while watching, laughing, spitting in her face and calling her every insult he could think of: whore, slut, pig, fucking fag, every word spoken with a smile. He squeezed her tits until she cried out in pain, pinched her nipples and twisted them. He grabbed her cock, which had gone soft with fear, and laughed, telling her she was a phony, that deep down she loved it, that’s why she did it.
Bruna told me there came a point when the tears dried up. She stopped crying, stopped complaining. She slipped into that state of shock where the body gives up and the mind goes somewhere else, far away, watching everything from above as if it were happening to someone else. There were no more pleas. Only the sound of thrusting, the smell of sweat and cum, and a resignation that shattered my heart when she described it to me.
They untied her only to tie her up again, this time on her back, with her legs spread and strapped to the bedposts, fully exposed. She didn’t resist; she was trying to disappear. They bit and squeezed her chest until their teeth marks were left around her nipples, they pressed on her throat until she could hardly breathe while one of them fucked her again, they slapped her so hard her ears rang. The one on top straddled her chest and shoved his cock in her mouth like that, choking her with it, feeling her gag, feeling her convulse beneath him. The other drove himself between her legs without stopping, gripping her thighs with both hands, leaving the impressions of his fingers stamped into her skin. She came to think that room was going to be the last thing she ever saw, and, as she told me with terrible calm, she even came to wish it.
But those two animals still weren’t finished. When they finally got tired, they pulled out their cocks and stood in front of her face, working them with both hands with the tips aimed at her mouth. They came one after the other, thick hot ropes landing on her lips, on her eyelids, in her hair, while the two of them grunted and rubbed the head of their cocks over her cheek to wipe the last drops on her. And, to top it off, they got on top of her and pissed on her while laughing, hot piss splashing in her face mixed with semen, running down her neck to her chest, one last mockery to make it clear who was in charge.
The result: a body beaten to a pulp, tears that would take time to heal, and a trauma that would take far, far longer.
***
During the months that followed I tried to take care of her as best I could. Sometimes we’d spend the whole afternoon holding hands, or just curled up together on the sofa, saying nothing, watching the light fade through the window. There was no need to talk. Just being there was enough, or at least that’s what I wanted to believe.
It was during those silent afternoons that I realized what I felt for her had stopped being friendship a long time ago. I fell in love with Bruna without hope of rescue, with her strength, with the way she got up every morning in spite of everything. I’m almost certain she noticed, but she didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare either. It wasn’t the time.
Little by little she recovered. She went back to class, went back to passing, even laughed again now and then with that head-thrown-back laugh. But she never quite became the same again. Some things leave a crack that never closes; you just learn to live with it.
***
In part, for a long time, I felt responsible for what happened to her. Because when she started prostituting herself, I’d already been in the trade for a while. In fact, I was one of the few people around me I told.
I remember how she listened to me, her eyes shining with curiosity, asking me details, how much I made, what clients were like. More for the thrill of it than anything else, I think. And I, naive fool that I was, told her about my experiences and showed her what I made in a good week. That curiosity, that thrill, and that “easy” money — I repeat, it never is — pushed her to take the plunge.
It took me a long time to forgive myself. It took me a long time to understand that the decision was hers, that she was a free woman, and that blaming me meant taking away her right to have chosen. But there are nights when it still isn’t easy for me.
This isn’t a job like working in a factory or sitting in an office. It’s a trade that leaves scars for life, and the problem is that when you’re young and still don’t know what people are made of, you think you can handle anything. You think you’re stronger than the world.
I know that whoever lands on a page like this is looking to read fantasies, desire, scenes that ignite something. But I also think it’s worth knowing the other side of all this. That behind every ad there is a flesh-and-blood person, with feelings, with fears, with people who love her waiting at home. And that all of them, absolutely all of them, deserve to be treated with respect.
Bruna, if you ever read this: thank you for letting me tell it. And I’m sorry, again, for having opened that door for you.