The Afternoon I Got Ready for a Stranger

My name is Bianca when I dress like this, even though that name doesn’t appear on any of my documents. Every so often the same fever comes back: the shamelessness rises inside me, a heat that won’t quiet itself and won’t go down until I let it out. It’s not something I choose. It arrives, takes over completely, and demands to be attended to. And that afternoon, when I got home from work with the sky already orange, I knew it was time to surrender again.

I love this secret stage, the one with the closet and the mirror, the one of the woman nobody suspects lives in me. I dropped my bag in the entrance, stripped without rushing, and got into the shower with a clear plan in my head. I shaved my whole body, centimeter by centimeter, paying special attention to the anal area because it’s so delicate and because I wanted to be perfectly smooth there. I ran my hand over my legs to make sure not a single hair was left, and the skin answered smooth, ready.

I got out of the bathroom and wandered naked around the apartment, letting the air dry me as I rubbed lotion all over my body. It smelled like coconut and something sweet. When I was completely dry, I began the real ritual: an ultra-tight black thong, a black lace bra, half-cup with a front clasp, lifting the little I have and making it look like much more. A purple garter belt, still without stockings. Thin strappy sandals that slimmed my ankle.

In front of the mirror I painted my lips a deep red, lined my eyes with a steady hand, and put on a wig of long curls that fell to mid-back. I looked at myself. I was no longer me. I was her, I was Bianca, and she was ready to open the door.

I have to confess why I went to so much trouble. I’d spent weeks chatting with a man. Long messages, half-shown photos, promises. That very morning, at last, the two of us had worked up to something more than words: he was coming to my place. I had invited him, with a boldness that now felt foreign to me, and the hour was drawing near with no way out.

I was nervous. No, I was terrified. I didn’t know what to expect, I didn’t know what I’d do when I had him in front of me, whether my voice would come out or I’d go mute like an idiot. To calm myself I decided to make myself even prettier. I took a black mini dress out of the closet, cut open at the sides almost to the waist, and slipped it over the lingerie. The mirror gave me back a woman who seemed to know exactly what she wanted. If only I knew.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Everything in me twisted, a mix of fear and already-building excitement that left my legs weak. For a second I thought about not opening, about standing still and letting him get tired and leave. But the phone vibrated: I’m outside, will you open? There was no turning back. I took a deep breath, walked to the door feeling every step, and opened it.

He looked me over from top to bottom, slowly, without trying to hide it.

—Hi, sweetheart. You look gorgeous —he said, his voice rough.

I couldn’t answer. I just smiled and lowered my gaze with that coquetry that comes out on its own when a woman feels desired. I stepped aside to let him in and invited him to sit on the sofa. I took a seat beside him, so close I could feel the heat of his body, and he immediately put his hand on my knee and started stroking me.

That touch lit me up instantly. His hand was big and warm, moving up and down my bare thigh with a calm that drove me crazy. I stayed still, letting him do it, biting my lip so I wouldn’t let out a moan too soon.

—I want to see you walk —he murmured suddenly—. Stand up. Walk for me.

The command turned me on even more, if that was possible. I felt like a real woman, a sexy female with an audience of one. I got to my feet and walked as slowly and provocatively as I could, exaggerating the sway of my hips, feeling his gaze fixed on my ass. I made a couple of laps around the living room, like a model on a private runway, and finally planted myself in front of him, legs apart, a silent invitation for him to touch me wherever he wanted.

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He took my buttocks in both hands and pulled me toward him.

—I really like you —he said against my belly, while slowly lifting my dress, exposing the garter belt, the thong, everything I had prepared for him—. Sit across from me. I want to show you something.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, facing him, my heart racing.

—Want to see what I’ve got in here? —he asked, taking his hand to his pants.

I was so hot I wasn’t thinking about anything else. I nodded without hesitation. He unzipped slowly, enjoying my impatience, and pulled out an enormous cock, much bigger than I had imagined, thick and hard. I looked at it and felt a mix of respect and a crazy desire to have it inside me. More than fear, what I felt was huge anticipation, an urge to try the whole thing.

I lowered myself little by little until I was kneeling between his legs. I put both hands on him and started stroking him up and down, feeling him throb against my palms. I brought my mouth closer, but I couldn’t fit it yet. I started with the tip, kissing it, licking it, opening my jaw as wide as I could to take in whatever would fit.

I took more than I could handle and felt like I was choking, but I held out a few seconds before pulling off coughing and trying again. Over and over, taking a little more each time. I kept at it for a good while, saliva running down my chin, until almost the whole thing started going in without so much effort.

And while I sucked him, I thought about what would come after. If my mouth had managed to tame him, my ass was going to have to do the same with that whole animal. The mere idea made me clamp my thighs together.

—Get on all fours —he ordered, pulling back and looking at me with a crooked smile—. I’m going to show you what a real man is.

My asshole shivered just imagining it. I climbed onto the sofa, got on all fours, and pulled my thong down to my thighs. I reached for the lube I’d left handy, slathered on plenty, and with my fingers I opened myself up for him, offering myself shamelessly.

He settled in behind me. First he ran the head between my buttocks, sliding it up and down, rubbing against me without entering, and those little brushes gave me an electric pleasure that made me arch my back. I wanted more. I pushed back, searching for it, begging for it without words.

—Easy —he laughed—. It’s coming.

He pressed the head against my entrance and began to push in little by little. He went in a couple of centimeters and stopped, letting me feel the burn and the stretch. Then a little more, and another pause. I breathed deeply, relaxing, accepting each stretch of that hard flesh. It took time, but he knew how to wait. And when my body finally gave in, he shoved it all the way in, to the hilt, every inch and every bit of thickness.

I let out a long moan that I didn’t even recognize as mine.

The motion started, slow at first, gradually building rhythm. He fucked me so damn good, with the confidence of someone completely used to it, of a man who had already tamed plenty like me and knew exactly how. He kept changing my position without pulling out all the way. He put one leg over his shoulder and went in deeper. He turned me on my side and hammered me from that angle. He bent me face-down against the sofa and drove into me relentlessly, all his weight on top of me.

Then he lifted my torso and sat me on him, letting his own weight sink him all the way in. I held on to the back of the sofa, riding him, completely lost. I was screaming, moaning, saying things I wouldn’t remember afterward. My eyes rolled back and my head went somewhere else, to some place that exists only in those minutes when a woman stops being a person and is pure body and pure desire.

—Like that, like that —he panted, marking the rhythm with his hands on my hips—. Don’t stop.

I didn’t stop. I wouldn’t have been able to even if I’d wanted to.

He sped up to the impossible, thrusting harder and harder, until I felt him tense all at once and explode inside me in several warm spurts. It was madness. I felt his cock swell with each release, throbbing inside me, emptying itself again and again. I lost count of how many times he came. My body took all of it, grateful, as if I’d gotten dressed up so much for exactly this.

He stayed still for a few seconds, breathing against the nape of my neck. Then he withdrew slowly.

He turned me around so I was facing him and, without saying anything, came closer to my face. I understood the command before he even said it. I opened my mouth and took him in again, cleaning him with my tongue, kissing him, sucking him slowly until, incredibly, he got hard again. And then he came a second time, this time on my face.

I loved feeling like that, marked, stained, with my face and mouth full of him. I felt completely like a woman, a woman capable of making a man come that way, twice, without him barely moving a finger. I closed my eyes and enjoyed that moment like a trophy.

We finished and lay there on the sofa for a while, catching our breath, legs tangled together. We didn’t talk much. There was no need.

When he got dressed to leave, he bent down and kissed one of my buttocks, like a signature, like a promise.

—I’ll call you —he said from the doorway.

And he kept his word. But that second time, when he came looking for me again and took me again just as he had —or even better— that afternoon, is another story. One worth telling, too.