The Afternoon My Neighbor Saw Me as a Woman

This happened many years ago, when I was nineteen and living with my parents in a house where my most private secret was an old suitcase hidden under the bed. Since I was sixteen, I liked to put on women’s clothes when I was alone. Over time I bought my own things, slowly, carefully, like someone building something fragile that he can’t show anyone.

That summer we spent long stretches at the family estate, a property on the outskirts that my father used to rest from his freight transportation business. It was a quiet place: a big garden, a dirt road, an irrigation ditch that ran along the garage. I had my hiding place there in the back room. In that suitcase I kept everything: sheer stockings, black lace lingerie, two short dresses, and a pair of high heels that had cost me half my savings.

On a Friday in July, my parents left together. My father had meetings in another city and my mother went with him as always. The laborers didn’t work weekends and don Ernesto, the caretaker, had Saturday off. I was left completely alone. And the moment I heard the car engine fading down the dirt road, I knew the next day would be mine.

***

I woke up around noon. I drank mate in a robe, looking out at the garden from the window, savoring that strange mix of calm and anticipation you only feel when you’re about to do something forbidden. Then I took a hot shower, dried myself slowly, and went to the back room to open the suitcase.

First the lingerie: a black lace set, snug and soft to the touch. Then the fishnet stockings, which had always seemed to me the most unambiguously feminine garment there was. Then a midnight blue dress, short and tight, that molded to the body without leaving anything to the imagination. And finally, the shoes.

They were black, high, thin heels, with a slender strap that buckled at the ankle. When I put them on and stood up, something changed. Not dramatically, not like in the movies. It was something subtle but definite: my posture, my weight distributed differently, the different sound of my steps on the wooden floor. I looked at myself in the long bathroom mirror and stood there for a moment, staring without looking away.

I had been dreaming for a year of going out like that. Not into the city, not where anyone could recognize me. Just taking a drive along the forest roads in the area, where barely anyone passed on weekends. I put a denim jacket over the dress, painted my lips dark pink, and took my father’s Renault keys. I left through the back door with my heart in my throat.

The breeze on my legs was something I had never felt with that intensity before. The sound of the heels on the cement step, the crunch of gravel under my feet. It took me a while to settle into the driver’s seat with the heels on, but I managed. I started the car and headed out onto the dirt road.

For almost two hours I drove along the edges of the fields, among pine trees and eucalyptus. A van in the distance. A woman with a dog who didn’t look up. Nothing else. I stopped on a dead-end road surrounded by trees, got out, and walked a stretch between the trunks, listening to the tapping of my heels on the roots and compacted earth. It was ridiculous and perfect at the same time.

***

When I decided to go back, the sun was already low and the light had that orange color of winter afternoons. I felt good. Too good, maybe, because when I entered the access road to the estate I didn’t pay enough attention to the edge of the irrigation ditch. The right rear wheel slipped without warning. I accelerated on instinct and that made everything worse: the left wheel fell in too.

I got out of the car and looked at it from behind. The two rear wheels were sunk in the ditch, with the chassis almost scraping the dirt ground. I tried several times to move the car: reverse, forward, reverse again. Nothing. The engine roared and the wheels spun in the mud without traction. As I pushed from outside, I noticed the thin heels sinking into the damp grass. It wasn’t the time to think about that, but I did anyway.

—Stuck, sweetheart?

The voice came from my right. I turned too fast and the heel slipped on the grass. I fell sideways, planted my palms on the ground, and before I could get up there was already a hand extended toward me. It was a man about forty, tall, with dark hair and some gray at the temples. He wore a rolled-up work shirt and field boots.

—High heels aren’t for the garden —he said, and there was no mockery in his voice. Or if there was, it was kind.

He helped me to my feet. I babbled something; I don’t remember exactly what. He was already looking at the car with a practical expression, sizing up the problem.

—I’m Roberto, from the estate across the way. I’ve got a pickup and a chain. In ten minutes I’ll get you out.

And he did. Without awkward questions. Without comments about my clothes or the makeup that had smeared with the shock. He tied a cable to the rear bar of the Renault, backed up with his pickup, and pulled the car out of the ditch as if it were a household routine. Then he coiled the cable calmly, put it away in the bed of the truck, and looked at me.

—You all right?

—Yes. Thank you so much, Roberto. Really.

—It’s nothing —he answered, and he meant it.

I don’t know why I invited him. I guess it was the mix of relief and adrenaline. Or maybe there was something about the way he looked at me, without discomfort or lechery, that made me feel unexpectedly safe.

—Do you want to stay for dinner? —I asked him—. To thank you.

He considered the offer without rushing.

—If you’re going to be dressed like that —he said finally—, with pleasure.

***

I went into the house with my heart racing. I changed the dirt-stained dress for a clean one, also short, burgundy in color. I touched up my lips. I changed the fishnets for a pair of smooth, nearly transparent stockings. I put perfume on my neck and wrists. I put the black heels back on.

What exactly was I doing?

I knew exactly what I was doing. I could already feel my cock hardening tight against the lace lingerie, throbbing with every movement, with every brush of the dress against my thighs.

Roberto arrived on time, with wet hair and a bottle of Malbec in his hand. He had changed clothes: dark trousers, light blue shirt with the first two buttons open. He smelled of soap and something faintly woody.

—Come in —I said, stepping aside to let him in.

I ate little. He ate with appetite and spoke calmly about the estate, the countryside, how long he’d been living alone since his marriage broke up. I listened and drank more wine than I should have. The candles in the center of the table made everything seem more intimate than it was, or maybe exactly as intimate as it really was.

When we finished eating, we moved to the living room sofa with our glasses. I sat beside him, not across from him. I crossed my legs slowly, letting the dress ride up until it nearly showed the edge of my stocking. His gaze dropped for a moment to my thighs and came back to my face, and he didn’t hide his hunger.

—You’re very pretty —he said.

—Thank you.

—Have you been...?

—Since I was sixteen —I replied, not waiting for him to finish the question—. But I never did it with anyone. No one ever touched me like this.

He nodded slowly. He put a hand on my knee, over the stocking, and slid it upward with a slowness that made me clench my teeth.

—Then we’ll take it slow —he said—. But I’m not going to lie: I’ve had a hard-on since you opened the door.

Hearing him say it like that, with that calmness, took my breath away. He set the glass on the coffee table and leaned in slowly, with that same unhurried ease he seemed to have for everything. He looked at me closely, as if asking without words. I didn’t look away. Then he kissed me.

It was a long, deep kiss, his tongue sliding into my mouth without haste, seeking mine, pushing it, making me yield. His hands were on my waist, firm, and one of them began to travel down to my hip and from there to my thigh, and from there farther in. When he touched me over the dress, over the lingerie, I was already wet with pre-cum soaking the lace. He felt it and smiled against my neck.

—Look at you, sweetheart.

I felt my shoulders loosen, my jaw, something deeper than my jaw.

***

We moved to the bedroom without rushing, but I was walking with my legs trembling. He unbuttoned my dress down my back and let it fall to the floor. He stood looking at me for a moment: the tight black lingerie, the marked, wet bulge in front, the sheer stockings, the heels.

—Turn around —he told me, his voice deeper than before—. Slowly.

I turned on the heels, showing myself off. I felt his hands on my ass over the lace, squeezing me, parting me, and then a soft slap that made me let out a foolish little gasp.

—You’re a gorgeous little slut —he murmured in my ear, biting my earlobe—. All this time hidden away, huh?

—Yes —I whispered.

—And do you know what I’m going to do to you?

—Tell me.

—I’m going to fuck you until you don’t remember your own name.

He had me lie on the bed on my back and watched me undress him. He took off his shirt, then his belt, then his trousers. When his underwear fell to the floor, I saw for the first time the cock I had been imagining for an hour: thick, long, hard against his belly, with a bulging vein running underneath and the tip already shining with fluid. My mouth literally watered.

He was a calm man even in that. He climbed onto the bed and kissed me slowly from ankle to thigh, nibbling at the stocking, moving upward to the inner side, breathing hotly over my crotch. He pulled my lace panties down without taking them all the way off, leaving them caught on one of the heels, and took my cock in his hand. He held it firm and licked it from base to tip with a flat tongue, like someone savoring something for the first time. Then he took the whole thing into his mouth, all the way to the back, and sucked me with a calm that made me grab the sheets.

—Roberto, wait, I’m going to...

He let go just before, his lips shining, and smiled.

—Not yet, sweetheart. Your turn.

I didn’t need to undo anything; he was already naked. I knelt between his legs and took him in my hand. The cock felt heavy in my palm, hot and throbbing. I brought it slowly to my mouth, tasting the tip first with my tongue, circling the head, sucking the salty fluid that came out little by little. Then I opened my mouth and took in half of it, testing how much I could handle. I felt the skin taut against my palate, the pulse on my tongue.

He let out his breath slowly, eyes closed, one hand resting on my head without pressing. I took him deeper, until my eyes filled with tears and I had to pull back for a second to breathe. I went back again, this time using my hand at the base and my mouth on the rest, moving up and down with a rhythm I found on my own. I heard his breathing change, heard him start to let out short groans, heard his hand in my hair tighten a little more, and that gave me a strange, concrete, completely new satisfaction. I sucked his balls too, one by one, while I gave him a slow blow job, and he said my name for the first time that night, in a broken gasp.

—Enough —he said—, or I’m going to come in your mouth right now.

—I want you to come inside —I said, without thinking before I said it—. Inside the ass.

I saw his jaw tighten when he heard me.

Then he asked me to get on my knees on the bed, chest against the mattress and ass up. I felt his hands on my hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on my skin. He took his time. A long time. He spread my cheeks with both hands and bent down, and I felt the hot tongue licking me there, a place no one had ever touched before. I let out a long moan against the pillow. He licked me calmly, in and out, wetting me thoroughly, while with one hand he gave me a slow blow job underneath. I felt myself opening in a way I hadn’t known I could open.

He took lubricant from his trousers —he had brought it, he had thought of it— and coated me well, first with one finger, then with two. He moved them in circles, in and out, and I pushed my ass against his hand without being able to help it.

—Look at how tight you are —he murmured—. You’re going to feel all of it.

When he finally entered me, he did it slowly, millimeter by millimeter, letting me get used to it. I felt the thick tip forcing past the ring, then the burn of penetration, then the full weight of the cock sliding into me until I felt his balls against my skin. I ran out of breath. He stayed still, breathing heavily over my back.

—You okay? —he asked.

—Yes —I answered, and it was the simplest truth I had ever spoken in my life—. Fuck me, please.

He started to move. First slowly, with long, deep thrusts that drew out moans from me I didn’t know I could make. His hand grabbed my hair, not violently, firmly, and pulled my head back a little. The other hand closed over my hip. The rhythm built. Each thrust drove me into the mattress and made me press my heels against the sheets, with the panties still hanging from one ankle.

—Like that, slut, like that —he panted against my ear—. Look at you sucking my cock with your ass.

I couldn’t answer. I only moaned and pushed my ass back, seeking more, letting myself be fucked with a surrender that was rediscovering my whole body.

We changed positions twice. He turned me onto my back, with my legs bent against my chest. The black heels in the air. The cock came in again with a firm shove and made my back arch. Now I could see his face while he fucked me, see his chest shining with sweat, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked on mine. He bent down and kissed me while he fucked me, with his tongue sliding into my mouth in the same rhythm as the cock in my ass.

Then he lifted my legs over his shoulders, folding me almost in two, and there the angle changed. Every thrust went deeper, hitting a place that made me see white spots. My cock was rock-hard between our two bellies, trapped, and with every movement it rubbed against his skin and mine. I started to feel like I couldn’t take any more.

—I’m going to come —I gasped.

—Come for me, sweetheart. Don’t touch yourself.

And I came. Without touching my cock, just with him fucking me, thrust after thrust into the same spot. The heels trembling in the air while hot jets of semen splattered my belly and chest, one after another, while I clenched my ass around him and moaned uncontrollably.

He held on a little longer, watching my face while I came, with that calm concentration he had for everything. Then he pulled out and took himself in hand.

—Open your mouth —he said.

I opened it. He jerked himself quickly over my face and finished with a rough, contained growl, spilling thick streams of semen over my tongue, over my lips, over my cheek. I licked the tip when he was done, taking the last drops from him, and swallowed without taking my eyes off his. I saw a late spasm run through him at the sight of that.

For some reason I can’t explain, the most erotic thing of the whole night was the heels moving above us like proof that it was real.

***

We stayed silent for a while. He went to the bathroom, came back with a damp towel, and handed it to me without making a scene. I cleaned myself slowly: the semen from my chest, my belly, my face. Then we went to the kitchen almost naked, me still wearing the heels and my lingerie half on, and I made coffee. We sat very close together on the wooden bench at the counter, with the hot cups in our hands and the silence of the estate around us.

Before he left, he told me that if I ever wanted to come visit him, his door was open. I told him yes, I’d like that. He kissed me on the forehead, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and left through the back door toward the dark dirt road.

I stayed in the kitchen listening to his footsteps recede until there was nothing left to hear.

So this was it.

I went to the back room, carefully took off the heels, put them in the suitcase, and lay down. It was the first time in a long while that I fell asleep without having to hide anything.