The Day at the Beach That Exposed Our Secret

No, that bikini did not suit me. I frowned in that very me gesture, almost a childish pout that came over me whenever something frustrated me. When I noticed, I tried to smooth it out, but it was hard, and the moment I let my guard down —something my mind was expert at— it came back again.

There was a knock at the door and I jumped, returning from my rich inner world to everything around me.

—Who is it?

—It’s me, Diana! How much longer? The others are all downstairs already!

—I’ll be down in a moment. Just a second.

I sighed, pulled myself together, and went back to the mirror. It reflected the image I had already grown used to: a very short girl perched on excessive heels —my ankles had been locked so I couldn’t wear anything flatter—; a mane of dark, curly, glossy hair, the work of a salon, because my natural hair was straight and an ordinary brown; brown eyes and tiny eyebrows, plucked into a perfect arch at the cost of losing all expressiveness.

The makeup was immaculate, freshly applied and waterproof. More than half an hour’s work so it wouldn’t look like I was wearing any, just to cover my flaws. The same ones my husband insisted did not exist. Naturally: I didn’t let him see me without it. I woke up before him and went to bed after him. If he wanted sex —as he almost always did— we had it, and then I went to the bathroom. My bare face was mine alone.

The worst part was the curves they had given me.

My little breasts looked like half a tennis ball stuck to my chest, with an areola that took up almost all of each one’s surface and a tiny nipple in the center. Neither with cold nor when aroused did they react much. My waist was so narrow that some people thought it unreal and asked permission to wrap their hands around it, checking its fifty-eight centimeters.

And then there was my ass.

One hundred and thirty centimeters of pure excess.

I was —am— all ass. A slim girl whose center of gravity revolves around a gigantic backside. When it came to beachwear, there was no way to make the top match the bottom. Before, I used to alter the clothes myself —child size on top, plus-size on the bottom—, but since some shops began selling the pieces separately, even if it costs me more money, I’m a little happier and a little more confident.

I was in the middle of that that morning. The thong was no problem. Since my ass was out in the open, the piece fit me well. It barely pinched at the hips, nothing I couldn’t put up with for hours. But up top, the padded top did not hug me. I liked bras like that, because making it look like I had more breasts boosted my self-esteem. Then a blouse or a T-shirt covered everything. There was no such thing here and, looking at myself, I could see my little nipples without the fabric quite touching them.

Diana called again:

—Carla! They’re going to take our spot!

—I’m coming, I’m coming.

I resigned myself and opened the door to her.

She came in like a whirlwind. She was the opposite of me: tall, naturally blonde, with a large, drooping chest whose nipples pointed toward her navel when she let them hang loose, which was not the case. A beautiful balconette bikini held them in a low but decent position. On the bottom she wore shorts instead of panties: the only way to hide her permanent chastity cage.

—Why are you taking so long?

—Because this doesn’t fit me right! Everything shows!

She looked at me with her hands on her hips. There was amusement in her eyes and a hint of feigned irritation. Only those of us who knew her knew how to read it, because her face barely moved. She didn’t need makeup: she had the ethereal beauty of a porcelain doll. Even in moments of suffering or joy, her range of expression was minimal.

—God, you’re such an idiot! For anyone to notice that, they’d have to be right on top of you, at the level of your own eyes. From the front or from behind, nothing can be seen —she tossed me the sarong she had left by the bed—. Put this on, grab your beach bag, and shake that huge ass life gave you!

—Life didn’t. The Institute did.

For a moment we both went serious. It had been a long time since that name had given us chills.

I tied the sarong toga-style and we left. It was the first time we had left the city since they had turned us into what we were, and everything seemed new, beautiful, and bright.

As usual —to the point that the strange thing would have been the opposite—, we attracted looks. From men, above all, but women too. A slender, excessively busty blonde —that morning, also wearing a straw hat and huge sunglasses to protect her pale skin— and a brunette with curly hair, which I couldn’t tie up by design, with an ass that seemed tripled, swaying to the rhythm of my square-heeled sandals.

And that was without Vera, whose enormous globes were a magnet not for desire alone, but for sheer physical excess.

When we got to the beach, our husbands were already there. They had rented several umbrellas for the whole day, an advantage of their buying power. For them, that getaway was so modest that when Diana and I suggested it, they didn’t believe us at first. They accepted the destination and the way of traveling, but insisted on a better hotel and a bit more luxury. Deep down, they were thrilled to mingle with ordinary people and set business aside.

My man, Andrés, had been rich from the cradle. He worked in art dealing and, above all, art sponsorship. That was how I had met him, two years earlier, at a classical music concert that by then I was just beginning to discover I liked. He was a little older than me, already in his late thirties while I still had some way to go before reaching them.

I had to teach him how I liked to be loved. He was too giving, expecting something from me I couldn’t provide. Once it got through his stubborn thick skull that he had to use me without mercy, everything got better. Since then he had improved a great deal. Maybe he’d even gotten a little too confident, I thought with a half smile.

Diana’s man, Esteban, was an executive at the company where we both worked. She was a receptionist, with her perfect face and Mona Lisa smile welcoming visitors; I, delivering mail and parcels with my cart, perched on my torturing heels. He was around fifty and, although he took care of himself, gray was already invading his goatee and temples. A budding belly lessened his appeal in my eyes, but not in my friend’s, who found it useful for sitting on and riding him. I had to admit his green eyes were hypnotic.

The worst thing about him was the possibility that he had been the one who paid for her transformation. It wasn’t clear and, although Diana didn’t care —she even found it ominously romantic—, it unsettled me. Besides, her transformation had been cheaper than mine. The freezing of movement and the preservation of her old genitals, though trapped, did not cost the same as making them almost disappear, as in my case, added to everything else. Whoever had commissioned my conversion —sooner or later I would find out— seemed determined to make my life as complicated as possible, full of physical and social limitations.

For example, I could only wear skirts no longer than mid-thigh, and the shorter the better. Anything longer gave me an almost immediate rash and a discomfort I was not willing to explore to the end.

Both men were in lively conversation when we arrived. For coming from such different worlds, they got along well.

—What are you talking about, guys? —I asked as we approached.

—About… business —Esteban replied, improvising.

—No way! —Diana cut in while spreading the towel over the sun lounger and beginning to pull creams out of the bag—. They’re talking about us. It’s written all over their faces.

—Well, that’s true —said Andrés in that deep voice of his, the one that always made me wonder why he had chosen me when he could have had any busty model—. But I don’t think you’d want to know…

—What do you mean, no? —I planted myself in front of them, hands on hips—. You’re not going to scare us. Right, Diana? Need I remind you we know our main job in life is to give you pleasure?

—I hate it when you reduce yourself to that! —he told me—. You’re so much more! It’s not just your job, it’s the whole life you’ve built and…

—Yeah, yeah —I cut him off—. Everything revolves around that. But you know —I took his hands and looked straight into his eyes— that if I can’t give you that, what happens to me happens to me: sleepless nights, anxiety, discomfort. It’s who I am. And I don’t regret it.

I kissed him deeply and felt him beginning to get aroused. I had long ago learned how to work him.

Diana, meanwhile, was applying full sunscreen to her face, arms, and legs. Her skin didn’t tolerate direct sun very well. Even so, she would end up with a slight golden tone that would disappear in a few days. I was envious of her beauty and, at the same time, disturbed by what it represented.

I, with my SPF 8, was fine, except for my little tits and my pubis, which always stayed white. The breasts, because the contrast made them look a little larger. The latter, because showing it would require too many explanations in public. My insensitive micropenis was just that: something to pee with. Nothing more. I didn’t cover it out of modesty. There was nothing there that defined me.

My sex was elsewhere.

Up top, in my mouth.

And below, in my ass.

And that was it.

That was why, when someone saw me naked, my hands went to my nipples and my buttocks. The same ones I was now showing without shame, with the tiny thong strap trapped between my cheeks giving me an absurd sense of security.

—Come on —said Diana, sitting down in front of her husband so he could put cream on her back—, are you going to tell us once and for all what you were talking about, or do we have to imagine it?

—They were probably betting on who would go topless first —I added.

—Dream on! —she replied—. Mine are not for showing off. I don’t feel like letting them see how they hang down to my navel. If anything, in private… I wish I had them like you!

—Then I wouldn’t like them —Esteban cut in—. They drive me crazy like this, so big and so low. To me they’re perfect. When we’re… well… when we’re…

—Fucking, darling. Don’t hold back —she said naturally.

—That. When we’re fucking, depending on the position, they bump into each other with that sound that’s so… —he trailed off, smiling—. Besides, I know they give you pleasure.

—Some —she admitted—. At least getting a bit of that, since I can’t come.

—I’m not showing mine either —I jumped in, pulling her out of that—. They’re too small and too sensitive. They embarrass me all the time, but especially in public. And yes —I pointed at Andrés—, I know they drive you crazy, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t trade them for this one’s…

—You don’t know what you’re saying —Diana cut me off.

—That way I could seduce from the front —I went on as if nothing had happened—, and not always from behind. You see who’s looking at you, but with me they do it when I’ve already passed by and I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.

—Okay —said Andrés—. So, with everything you’ve said… would you be willing to show yourselves naked for us? Not now —he added quickly—. This afternoon, in the room.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

It could be fun.

***

So the afternoon came, after a fun day in which, besides swimming a little —neither she nor I felt comfortable among the waves, even if they were small—, we read, played with the paddles while drawing far too many looks —the busty one and the ass girl chasing the little ball in the sand more times than I can remember— and ate at the beach bar.

They enjoyed a few espetos and a good dessert, while I, mouth watering, settled for a salad and for lying that I wasn’t hungry. Another of my curses was that if I overate, everything went to my ass and, worst of all, it never left. One hundred and thirty centimeters was already too much to be playing with fire.

The four of us went up to the suite Andrés and I shared. I hadn’t had time to shower, so my curls were frizzier than usual. I had touched up my makeup to be immaculate, something I couldn’t help doing. Meanwhile, it seemed as if neither salt nor sand touched Diana. A slight touch of sun-red beneath her eyes was all she had brought back from the beach.

They sat on the bed and watched us. We, on the other hand, were calm. We had seen each other naked a thousand times back in Institute days, when we met newly transformed, when we didn’t even know what to do with those bodies that that advanced technology that almost seemed like magic —they had explained it to me and I still didn’t understand it— had given us. Mine resembled a smaller, narrow-shouldered version of what I had been, but she didn’t even recognize herself. They had been more liberal with her “cheap” reconstruction, if that was possible.

Without waiting for them to ask, looking at each other again with a complicit smile, we took off our bikinis and her shorts, which fell to the floor with the sound of wet clothes.

Their eyes opened so wide that we started laughing, this time openly. Their tits bounced with every laugh. Mine did too, faster, more nervous. So did my helpless little prick, soft forever, while hers, trapped, was motionless.

Their gazes moved from one of us to the other. I noticed and pressed closer, so they could look at us with less head-turning. Diana was barefoot. My heels put us almost at the same height. Her udders began lower than mine, which had a fairly standard placement —though they were so far apart I would never have cleavage—, and fell in all their glory.

Almost in unison, we raised our arms and turned on our axis. A moment later it was our two asses drawing their attention. Hers, firm and contained. Mine… Diana, as she had done before, gave it a hollow slap that echoed through the room and made it wobble like jelly.

—Hey! —I protested.

—So they can look at it more comfortably!

Both of them had compared us. Naked, we sat in the two chairs there were: the vanity chair and the desk chair.

—Verdict? —I asked.

—Guilty! —said Esteban, a little flushed from the situation and the excitement it gave him.

—Tell us something about your sexuality —Andrés asked—. Each of us knows our girl’s, but this way we learn the other one’s.

—Really? —I said.

It stopped being a cheeky, fun situation. It was humiliating enough having the body they had given me —even if I accepted it in confidence— without also having to talk in front of a stranger about the thing that had cost me the most to understand and accept out of the whole change.

—Come on, I’ll start —my friend decided, giving me a tap on the arm to calm me. I appreciated it, though she had not had it any easier.

She inhaled, sat up straight, with her huge tits resting on her thighs, and began:

—Since I woke up as a woman four years ago, I have never had an orgasm. And yet I miss them every day. My way of giving pleasure is with my mouth and with my ass. Neither of the two things is especially pleasurable for me, but when it’s my man doing it, especially from behind, sometimes I think I’m about to… but I never get there. Long ago I learned it was useless to try to touch what once was my penis. Sometimes, if I get very aroused, it wants to go hard, but what they put on me has spikes inside and… well, you can imagine the feeling. So I’ve learned to live my arousal in another way.

She sighed when she finished. Why were they doing this to us? Were they getting off on it or did they have something else planned?

—I live aroused —I took over—. A caress, even a glance, if it’s from the right person, puts me at a hundred. I have lots of erogenous zones: the inner side of the wrists, the neck, the ears, the scalp, much of my back… and my little tits. I like being handled there so much it feels like I’m going to come. Of course, that never happens. By design, it can’t happen.

I felt the heat in my face, but I went on:

—At first it was hard for me, but now I understand it: if I had orgasms I wouldn’t focus so much on giving myself to my lover. With me, you can be sure I’ll give you as much pleasure as I can squeeze out of you. I’ve learned that only that way do I get satisfaction myself. Not physical, of course, that’s forbidden to me, but mental —I was red with the embarrassment of explaining how I worked on such an intimate level in front of Esteban—. When they’ve come inside me, for a while, sometimes minutes, sometimes hours, I have inner peace. Then the whole cycle starts again —I looked at my man—. Do you remember what I told you when we started going out properly?

—That I had to fuck you every day of my life.

—Exactly. Ass or mouth, but you had to use me so I could give you pleasure. Anyway, where are you trying to get with all this?

—This morning we were wondering —Andrés continued— what it’s like to have sex with the other one. That’s why we wanted to understand you better first.

—What? —we both shouted at once. Then we looked at each other, with more curiosity than horror.

—Are you serious? —Diana wanted to reassure herself.

—Only if you want to —Esteban replied.

We both stepped aside and exchanged a few quick opinions. We were both in essential agreement:

—We can think about it —I said, as spokesperson—, but not today, okay?

That seemed enough for them. Diana got dressed and they left. We would see them at dinner. I, still naked, crossed my arms beneath my little breasts and looked very seriously at my husband.

—It seemed like a good idea —he said, defensively—. The best thing was to ask you.

—First of all, there are other ways to ask. Second, you got me insanely turned on making me say what I like. This can’t be left like this.

Nothing in my body showed it: no erection, no pointy nipples, just a slight flush in my cheeks and a somewhat shallower breath.

—But we’re going to be late for dinner —he moaned.

—Then you’ll have to come quickly, because we’re not leaving here until you fill me with milk.

He sighed, but we both knew it wasn’t a complaint. He was more than willing.

From outside, maybe my moans could be heard.

Inside, for a while, there was peace.