The Double Life He Hid Beneath His White Shirt

It didn’t happen overnight.

Desire didn’t strike like lightning or arrive amid tears. It grew slowly, like a fine crack in polished china, like damp hiding behind the walls of propriety. At first it was barely that: a gaze lingering over the dresses hanging at the back of the workshop, a furtive brush as he passed between the mannequins, the way his fingers stayed a second too long on the lace while he arranged the shelves.

Wedding dresses. White, ivory, champagne. Necklines that left the back bare, fitted bodices, skirts that floated like foam over the legs. Promises of something he had never been allowed.

His mother always said that a good dress should make the woman trying it on cry. ‘If you don’t cry when you see yourself in the mirror, it isn’t the right one,’ she said. And he nodded, silent, with the proper smile of a good son. But inside, he cried too, because he knew it wasn’t them who were meant to wear those dresses. It was him. Or at least the part of him no one had ever known.

His name was Mateo. The son of devout parents, he had been raised among Bible studies, congregation meetings, and the constant fear of being ‘part of the world.’ He had never celebrated a birthday. He had been taught to be clean, modest, obedient. He was already a grown man, but he still slept under the same roof and obeyed the same rules he had as a child.

For years he wore a white shirt, a gold pin, and a tranquil smile that concealed his storm. At the temple they held him up as an example, had him read passages at assemblies. His mother said he had ‘the voice of a steadfast man,’ and he merely smiled. Because neither prayers nor the company of exemplary men could extinguish what he felt when he looked at the dresses in the family workshop.

He started by imitating them. He had no women’s clothes within reach, so he improvised: a towel as a wig, a sheet twisted around him as a skirt. Then the phone came. In secret, at dawn, he watched makeup tutorials on an old mobile. How to contour, how to create the illusion of cleavage, how to walk gracefully in heels. He learned in silence and deleted the history like someone cleaning a crime scene.

And more than once he felt like a criminal. Every time an elder of the congregation spoke of the immorality of ‘twisted desire.’ Every time a verse was read in a martial voice, warning against those who ‘exchange what is natural for what is improper.’ But none of that could stand against the visceral longing to feel lace against his skin.

His first serious attempt was almost a caricature. He waited until the house was empty and locked himself in the sewing room, his heart beating like a drum. He took the smallest mannequin, the one they used to adjust fine corsetry, and chose a garment he should never have touched: an ivory lace corset, with firm boning and metal clasps down the front. It took him ten minutes to get it on and a couple of stifled gasps. When he finally managed it, his ribs creaked in surprise, his belly flattened, and something inside him clicked into place.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Barefoot, without a wig or makeup, wearing the crooked corset. He was ridiculous. But he was glorious too. And between his legs, without seeking it, he felt his cock grow hard against the fabric, trapped and aching with sheer desire. He rubbed himself through the lace and whimpered softly, startled by how wet the tip was.

He smiled. Then he cried. And afterward, his eyes still shining, he came over his own hand, watching himself in the mirror, the corset squeezing his ribs and his breathing ragged. It was the first orgasm of his life that hadn’t made him feel dirty.

Deep down, he didn’t merely want to dress like them. He wanted to be looked at like them. Desired like them. He remembered a lingerie model he had seen one night, a fleeting apparition while he changed channels: walking in heels, her body wrapped in strips of lace, her lips red. That image marked him more deeply than any sermon. She was a work of art, while he was barely a filthy sketch that didn’t dare imagine itself as anything more.

At the temple, he laughed with the other young men and pretended to be interested in the new girls. But while they made crude comments about some recently arrived sister, he imagined something else: those looks being meant for him, those mouths saying his name, those fingers roaming over him hungrily, those cocks growing hard for him.

‘Hey, Mateo,’ Bruno said one afternoon, elbowing him with a malicious smile. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being surrounded by brides all day?’

They were sitting on a stone bench outside the meeting, soft drinks in hand.

‘What do you mean?’ he replied, shrugging.

‘The workshop, man. With your mom there, fitting dresses on all those women… doesn’t that make you, I don’t know, curious?’

‘It’s her job,’ Gael said. ‘I couldn’t do it. Too much skin. I’d end up needing to pray twice as much.’

‘I bet Mateo already has all their measurements memorized,’ Bruno added. ‘Even Sister Camila’s… that one really fills out a dress. Right?’

There was a different kind of silence. The sort that didn’t call for laughter, but for held breaths. Camila’s name had that effect. There was no need to describe her: they had all seen her.

Camila was only a few years older than him. Raised with modesty, always wearing skirts down to her knees. But not even the most chaste outfit could disguise what nature had given her, or that serenity of hers that seemed out of place among the temple benches. She was every man’s unspoken fantasy, though no one said so in front of the elders.

Mateo had attended to her many times at the workshop. He had adjusted clasps, taken measurements, held zippers. And every time he had to breathe deeply and pretend at a professionalism that abandoned him. But what he felt for her wasn’t desire. At least not in the way Bruno or Gael understood it. He wanted to be like Camila. To be the one who provoked those looks. He didn’t want her in his arms.

He wanted her curves. He wanted her power.

He forced a smile and lowered his gaze to a stone he nudged with the tip of his shoe.

‘I don’t pay attention to that,’ he said. But even to himself, his voice sounded hollow.

‘Relax, it was a joke,’ Bruno said, with that bored arrogance that was so characteristic of him. ‘Though if you ever feel like it, they do need a groom model too, right?’

The laughter that followed wasn’t camaraderie. It had an edge. Mateo joined in with a hollow laugh while his stomach churned. Because he knew the hypocrisy hidden behind those smiles: the home ‘Bible studies’ of the brother who used the night to fuck the absent brother’s wife, the loaded glances between young wives and elders dry as stones, the screens glowing with videos of opened pussies in the temple bathrooms during assemblies. Who was the sinner there? The one who dreamed of living his truth, or those who used God as a disguise for their own desires?

***

That night, already in his room, the tingling in his chest wouldn’t let him sleep. It wasn’t fear. It was hunger. A need to know himself to be real, even if only for a few seconds.

He turned off the light and left the blinds half-open. The silence of the house embraced him like a shared secret. He lowered his pants. The black stockings, tight against his pale skin, gave him the illusion of belonging to another body, another life. He took a picture. Then another. His thigh, the curve of his hip wrapped in elastic, his collarbone, his neck stretched backward. Everything suggestive, delicate, as if he were stripping away everything imposed on him.

He uploaded the pictures to a newly created account: malena_blanco. A name he had been whispering to himself for years like a forbidden echo. He didn’t know whom he wanted to reach. He only knew that when he saw his reflection on the screen, something settled inside his chest. And for the first time, he felt no guilt. Fear, yes. Guilt, no.

By day he was still Mateo: the good son, the workshop assistant, the soft-spoken boy who was always willing to help. But at night, when the house slept, Malena began to bloom. He was slender, with features softer than a ‘real man’ was supposed to have, full lips, and hazel eyes. His body was a border: masculine enough to pass unnoticed, androgynous enough to dream of another destiny.

And he was no longer alone. The account came alive. Shy comments at first, then bolder ones.

‘Is that waist real?’

‘I’d love to see you in a long dress.’

‘Tell me that neck belongs to you…’

‘You make everyone hard with those legs.’

‘Do you suck good, doll?’

Words that weren’t spoken aloud in his world, but that slipped through this one like fingers over skin. He read them in the dark, his hand between his stockings, and came silently, biting the pillow.

That confidence took him farther than he allowed himself to go. One afternoon, while taking inventory in the workshop, he found something out of place: a delicate, handmade garment, carefully finished. Not a full corset, but a high ivory lace girdle, reinforced at the waist with soft boning. The fabric radiated a sweet warmth against his touch. He couldn’t resist: he slipped it on and felt the lace embrace his body, shape his belly, emphasize his hips.

He looked at himself in the workshop mirror, phone in hand, and took a standing picture. Then, in an impulse he didn’t know how to measure, he shared it on Malena’s profile. One click.

***

The following morning arrived with its customary lazy light. Mateo turned on his phone and the notifications filled the screen. ‘100+,’ one red notification vibrated. His picture was exploding with likes and comments. His heart lurched. He hadn’t expected it. Not so quickly.

He looked at the image again and his throat went dry. Black stockings, the lace girdle cinching his waist, bare feet on the wood… and behind him, barely visible, the gold sign bearing the embroidered name of the business: ‘Atelier Aurora.’ He had exposed himself without realizing it. Not only his body: his world, his secret, his roots.

He went through the comments with trembling fingers. And among the hearts and indecent phrases, there was a name he didn’t know and, at the same time, did.

@ReinaCami.

He opened the profile with a mixture of doubt and vertigo. Photos. Dozens of them. Camila. But not the Camila from the temple, the quiet girl in skirts down to her knees. She was someone else. Red lips, tight dresses, deep necklines, sidelong looks like blades. In one she held a wineglass and smiled as if the world belonged to her. In another she posed before the mirror in a club bathroom, wearing a skirt that seemed like an offense. The same face, the same body, the same Camila.

He returned to his post. There was her comment.

‘Interesting…’

That was all. One word. A whisper. And beneath it, a direct message. Only one.

‘Do you know what you’re doing when you put that on? Do you really know?’

He felt everything go dark for a second. The confidence that had led him to pose dissolved like ink in dirty water. He thought about deleting the account, denying everything, saying it was a joke, a hacked account. He didn’t. He reread the message once, twice, three times. And something in that tone, halfway between accusation and complicity, made him tremble… but also made his cock hard against his pajama pants.

***

He chose his clothes with automatic precision: a white shirt buttoned to the neck, dark trousers, polished shoes, the gray jacket his mother laid out for him every weekend. Everything according to the mold. But inside, he was something else.

He didn’t want to write to Camila. That would mean admitting it. But he needed to see her, like someone who needs proof that the abyss exists.

The temple was discreet: beige walls, tall windows, verses carved into pale wood. Mateo entered with a restrained smile, searching for her among the familiar faces. He didn’t see her. And he had no time to feel relieved.

‘Mateo,’ a deep voice called from one side.

It was Brother Linares, one of the oldest elders. Slow when walking, but quick to smell out sin. He led him to a small side room with a table and two chairs, then closed the door with a dry click.

‘I wanted to congratulate you,’ he said, in the voice of a father gently reprimanding a child. ‘Not all young men remain steadfast these days. You set an example, son.’

Mateo swallowed and lowered his head.

‘Thank you, brother.’

‘Just one thing,’ the elder added, leaning toward him. ‘You should eat more. You’re very thin. A man must have presence: firmness in his voice, strength in his back. Do you understand?’

Mateo felt his skin prickle.

‘Yes,’ he murmured.

But inside, something was breaking. Why that comment, that smile, right now? Had he seen something? Sweat ran down his back beneath the pressed shirt. He felt naked, as if the elder were looking straight at Malena, hidden behind the buttons and gold pin.

‘Keep going as you are,’ Linares concluded. ‘Faith is also projected through form. Remember that.’

That last sentence lodged in him like a splinter. He left the small room as if escaping a dream that had begun to rot, his legs trembling.

And then he saw her enter.

Camila.

For an instant, everything froze. The murmurs, the footsteps, the dim light from the windows: everything blurred except her. He had never truly looked at her. Not like this. Her walk was calm, almost floating. The light-blue blouse without a neckline, the gray skirt reaching mid-calf, the low shoes. She looked almost monastic. But there were details that shouldn’t have been there: nails painted a discreet red, a thin ring with a stone glinting beneath her sleeve, the way the skirt clung precisely where it demanded to be noticed.

Camila was a contradiction, a secret in the shape of a woman. And for the first time, he understood it. What he had envied all his life wasn’t her breasts or her waist. It was her power.

When their eyes met, she smiled. Not the way one smiles at a brother or out of courtesy, but like someone who knows something the other person still doesn’t dare confess.

Mateo walked toward her as if pushed by something older than fear.

‘Can we talk?’ he asked, his thread of a voice disguised as calm.

She tilted her head slightly.

‘Now?’

‘Please. Just a moment. It’s important.’

Camila scanned him with her eyes. She saw his hands tremble, just for an instant, but it was enough. She sighed, turned around, and led him down a side corridor to a small study room. She closed the door gently and leaned against the wall.

‘I never imagined it was you,’ she said, neither harshly nor gently, but firmly. ‘I’ve been following Malena for a week. I loved the lace, the stockings, that seductive touch. I never thought it was you.’

The sentence didn’t sound mocking. But it was a clean, direct blow.

‘And I never thought your family’s business worked with that kind of garment either,’ she added with half a smile. ‘You’ll have to help me choose something pretty next time.’

Mateo could barely speak.

‘Technically… we don’t sell that,’ he stammered. ‘But sometimes brides ask for details that aren’t in the display cases. My mother and aunt make them to order. It’s artisanal work.’

Camila laughed under her breath. Not mockingly, but like someone catching a delicious scent and knowing the other person hadn’t noticed it yet. She leaned in slightly, with exactly enough precision for him to feel the brush of her breath without it actually touching him.

‘It must be paradise,’ she said. ‘Having all that within reach.’

Her fingers played with the edge of her sleeve, slowly turning the ring. Every gesture was an elegant denial of dogma. And yet there was no vulgarity in her, only a lucid sensuality that knew itself powerful and had no need to prove it.

Mateo lowered his head. It wasn’t paradise. It was hell wrapped in lace. And something inside him broke.

‘As long as I can remember, I’ve been surrounded by women,’ he began, the words spilling out like water from a broken dam. ‘My mother, my aunt. I never felt like one of them, the people from the congregation. They always seemed alien to me. And I pretended, all the time. Every time I saw a waist shaped by a corset, something lit up inside me. It wasn’t desire for them. It was the desire to be the one wearing it. To feel seen.’

He looked at her. His eyes shone, but he wasn’t crying.

‘And you were always a blind spot. I never wanted to touch you. I wanted to be you. To have your presence, that magnetism that draws everyone in even when you do nothing. And then Malena appeared. That picture I shouldn’t have uploaded was the first time I felt I wasn’t pretending.’

He fell silent, his chest aching as if he had just run for miles. And he waited, like someone awaiting a verdict.

Camila didn’t answer immediately. She watched him with an intensity that was warm and cruel at once. Then she approached slowly and placed a hand on his knee. It wasn’t an intimate gesture, but it was firm, lingering long enough for him to feel that something inside him had just been marked.

‘Your secret is safe with me,’ she said quietly.

For a moment, Mateo breathed. But then he raised his eyes and saw it in hers. It wasn’t compassion or mockery. Camila wasn’t looking at him like someone keeping a secret. She was looking at him like someone who had claimed him.

‘But it won’t come free,’ she added without changing her tone. ‘I want to see you. You. Not this one’—and she pointed to his shirt, his impeccable clothes, his model-male appearance—‘I want to see Malena.’

Mateo parted his lips, but he didn’t manage to protest.

‘Don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘We can go to my house. No one’s there. My mother went with my sister to visit a sick aunt. I have the house to myself until Sunday.’ She winked. ‘You can tell your family you’re giving me lessons. “Spiritual assistance for a new sister.” Something like that.’

She stood naturally, as if they hadn’t discussed anything out of the ordinary.

‘Shall we go?’

When they came out, the temple was full again. Bruno and Gael, sitting in the back, saw them and gestured for an explanation he didn’t have. Just before moving ahead, Camila turned and gave him a quick look, her head barely tilted. Not a broad smile: a restrained, flirtatious, unmistakable gesture. Enough for more than one person to notice.

***

Camila’s house smelled of jasmine and freshly ironed clothes. She slid the bolt into place, left the keys on a table, and looked at him from the center of the living room without hurrying.

‘Upstairs,’ she said. ‘I want to watch you assemble Malena. Step by step.’

Mateo followed her upstairs, his heart pounding against his ribs. In the bedroom, Camila took a box from a drawer containing garments he never would have imagined on a sister from the congregation: stockings, lace, a dark dress with thin straps, a tiny red thong, a pair of black heels. She spread them across the bed like an offering.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ she murmured, sitting on one corner of the mattress with her legs crossed. ‘In here there are no elders. No verses. Just us.’

The word went through him. Us. No one had ever used it for him. With clumsy fingers, he began unbuttoning his white shirt, one button at a time, while she watched him with the calm of someone who owned the moment. Every garment that fell to the floor was another layer of obedience peeling away. When he slid the stocking up his leg and felt the lace cinch his waist again, his hands stopped trembling.

Camila stood. She slowly circled his body, adjusted a strap over his shoulder, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. It wasn’t tenderness. It was possession. She turned him toward the full-length mirror and stood behind him, her warm breath against his neck.

‘Look at yourself,’ she whispered. ‘This is what you were. All this time.’

And Camila’s hands didn’t stay still. They began at his hip, over the lace waist, and moved slowly up his flat belly and ribs, until they brushed his nipples through the fabric. Malena let out a sharp gasp, more feminine than she had thought possible from her own throat.

‘Shh,’ Camila murmured against his neck, barely biting it. ‘Don’t close your eyes, princess. Look at yourself. Look how they touch you.’

Camila’s red lips left a wet trail beneath his ear, over his nape, over his bare shoulder. One hand moved slowly, very slowly, following the edge of the lace until it stopped at his pubis. It stayed there for a moment, feeling through the stocking, and Malena felt her entire body electrify when those fingers found her hard cock, trapped sideways beneath the ivory girdle.

‘Look what we have here,’ Camila purred, never stopping her gaze in the mirror. ‘A whole little lady with a stiff little cock. Does it turn you on to see yourself like this, doll? Does it turn you on to have a woman touch you while you look like a woman?’

Malena couldn’t answer. Only a trembling moan quivered in her throat. Camila opened the clasps at the front of the girdle with frightening skill, without lowering it completely, leaving only the cock free, red and throbbing against the ivory lace. With her eyes fixed on Malena’s in the reflection, she wrapped her palm around it and began to jerk her off slowly, turning her wrist in leisurely circles, while her other hand squeezed one nipple until Malena arched.

‘You’re soaking the lace, you filthy girl,’ she whispered in her ear, licking her earlobe. ‘Look how it’s coming out of the tip. Everyone can see you. They can see the whore inside you.’

Malena saw in the mirror the clear drop Camila drew out with her thumb and spread over the entire glans. She saw her own face, lips parted, eyes glazed, hair disheveled. She saw, for the first time in her life, a woman being touched. And that woman was her.

Camila spun her around. She kissed her on the mouth without asking, biting her lower lip and thrusting her tongue deep inside with a voracity that had nothing of the modest temple sister about it. Malena answered as best she could, clumsy at first, then hungry, clinging to her nape and letting herself be devoured. A thread of saliva ran down her chin and she didn’t care.

‘Now it’s my turn to be watched,’ Camila said, pulling away. In two clean movements she removed her light-blue blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits came into view, round and heavy, with dark nipples already hard. Her gray skirt fell to the floor, and there was nothing beneath it: only the dark triangle between her thighs and a wetness shining in the window light.

Malena was breathless. All her life she had looked at Camila from the forced distance of the temple, and now she had her naked before her, smelling of jasmine and sweat, her wet cunt almost brushing her leg.

‘Kneel,’ Camila ordered with sharp sweetness.

Malena obeyed without thinking. The ivory lace creaked as she bent. Camila held her face in both hands and brought one breast to her mouth.

‘Suck it. As if it were yours. As if you’d never taken anything else.’

Malena closed her lips around the nipple. She sucked slowly at first, then hungrily, alternating between them, listening to Camila’s sighs above her, feeling the woman’s hand caress her hair and nape before dropping to play with the cock still throbbing between her legs. She squeezed the glans, kneaded it, released it, tortured her.

‘Good girl,’ Camila panted. ‘Good girl. But stand up now. I want to suck you.’

She made her stand. And this time Camila was the one who knelt, she, the queen, the model, the fantasy of the entire temple, kneeling on the carpet before Malena with her tits bare and the stiff cock pointing at her face.

‘Look at me, doll,’ Camila said, raising her eyes. ‘Look at me sucking you. And don’t stop looking at yourself in the mirror either. I want you to see yourself being sucked like the pretty whore you are.’

And she opened her mouth. She took the entire cock in one movement, deep into her throat, and Malena had to grab Camila’s shoulder to keep from falling. Her hot tongue circled the glans, moved up and down the frenulum, lingered at the tip, licking the fluid that kept leaking out. Camila’s red lips closed around the shaft and slid along it with a wet, obscene sound that filled the entire room. She grabbed Malena’s balls with her other hand and kneaded them, rolling them between her fingers, while continuing to suck with the voracity of someone who had spent months fantasizing.

Malena turned her head slightly. In the mirror she saw the scene: herself standing, wrapped in ivory lace, black stockings reaching her thighs, hair disheveled, nipples outlined beneath the fabric, her cock disappearing into the painted mouth of a kneeling woman. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She had never seen herself.

‘I’m going to come,’ she panted, tightening her fingers in Camila’s hair. ‘Camila, I’m coming, I’m coming…’

Camila released the cock with a wet pop and smiled at her, her lips shining with saliva and precum.

‘No, no, no. Not yet, doll. The best part is still to come.’

She pushed her backward. Malena fell sitting onto the bed, her cock throbbing in the open air, the ivory girdle crooked around her waist, her legs spread and the black stockings wrinkling over her thighs. Camila looked down at her, savoring her with her eyes, then climbed onto the bed. She placed one knee on either side of Malena’s head. She positioned herself so that her cunt was directly over Malena’s mouth. Malena felt the wet heat before the flesh brushed her lips, and the scent of a woman fully awakened reached her, dense and intoxicating.

‘Now you,’ Camila murmured. ‘Eat my cunt. Show me you learned well from watching us all this time.’

Malena stuck out her tongue without thinking. She found the salty, sweet, dense taste. She licked slowly at first, following the folds, learning the map. She found the hard clitoris and lingered there, sucking it and circling it with the tip of her tongue, until Camila began to moan without restraint, without modesty, mouth open and eyes half-closed, bracing her hands against the headboard to move more easily.

‘That’s it, doll, like that, like that, like that… deeper, put it deeper… oh, you do it so well, that little tongue is so good, you’re a divine little bitch…’

Malena grabbed her by the hips and pulled her hard against her face. She pushed her tongue as far as she could, pulled it out, rose to the clitoris, descended to the fold, then rose again. Camila’s cunt soaked her chin, her cheeks, her neck. The scent of woman filled her head, a perfume both violent and clean. She felt Camila twisting over her, squeezing her face between her thighs, and at some point the woman’s hand moved behind her, grabbed her cock, and began jerking her off in the same rhythm with which she rocked against Malena’s mouth.

‘I’m coming, doll, I’m coming, eat it all, I’m coming in your mouth…’

Camila came with a hoarse cry, squeezing her thighs against Malena’s face, trembling from head to toe. A warm gush flooded her mouth and Malena swallowed as best she could, eyes watering, sucking until the last contraction, feeling the cunt throb against her tongue and wet half her face.

When Camila finally released her, she dropped to one side with a husky little laugh. She ran a hand through her sweat-damp hair, turned her head, and looked at her again with a new hunger. She ran her thumb over Malena’s chin, gathered some of her own orgasm, and put it in Malena’s mouth.

‘Now I want to feel that cock inside me,’ she said. ‘All afternoon I looked at the picture wondering what it would feel like to fuck a little queen like you.’

She straddled Malena. She grabbed the cock, straightened it, and rubbed it over the lips of her soaked cunt. Malena arched her hips involuntarily, seeking it, and Camila laughed softly.

‘Easy, princess. Easy. I’ll put it in when I want to.’

She lowered herself slowly. Inch by inch, she impaled herself on Malena’s cock, eyes closed and mouth open, panting with every stretch. Malena felt her tight, burning, soaking wet, a hot glove squeezing her completely. When Camila had lowered herself all the way, when her cunt rested fully against Malena’s belly, she opened her eyes and smiled.

‘Oh, doll. What a delicious cock. What a delicious cock you have. And to think you kept it hidden beneath that gold pin.’

She began to move. Slowly at first, rolling her pelvis and letting herself feel it. Then faster, rising and lowering her whole body, her tits bouncing freely, her hands braced against Malena’s chest. Malena watched from below, mouth open, seeing her cock slide in and out, shining between the thighs of the most desired woman in the temple. The ivory girdle squeezed her waist and made her feel every thrust in the pit of her stomach.

‘Touch my tits, doll. Squeeze them. Suck them.’

Malena sat up as best she could, grabbed her waist, and latched onto one breast with her mouth while kneading the other. Camila wrapped her arms around her and pulled her close, continuing to move with the cock inside her, biting Malena’s shoulder and whispering in her ear things Malena had never heard anyone say.

‘You’re my little queen, my little doll, my pretty lace slut. You like it, yes? Tell me you like it. Tell me who’s fucking you.’

‘You… you’re…’ Malena panted.

‘Say it properly. Say it by name. Without fear.’

‘Camila… you’re fucking me, Camila…’

‘And who are you? Say it. Say it now that you have me inside you.’

‘Malena. I’m Malena.’

‘That’s right, doll. That’s right. That’s who you are.’

Camila turned her over. She put her face down on the bed, her black-stockinged legs raised and the ivory girdle still cinched around her waist. She lifted Malena’s hips, spread her legs, and climbed on top again, this time facing away, bracing her hands on the bed and moving her ass against Malena’s pelvis, riding her backward. Malena clung to the sheets and thrust from below, thrusting with everything she had, watching the side mirror reflect the entire image: Camila riding her with her breasts bare, and herself wrapped in lace, legs sheathed in stockings, fucking her as if she had been born for it.

Camila’s thighs tensed and relaxed, her round ass dropping against her with a wet smack each time. Malena dug her fingers into her hips, gave her a tentative slap, then a harder one, and Camila cried out with pleasure.

‘More, doll, harder, come on, give this slut everything you’ve got…’

Malena slapped her with an open palm and felt the ass tremble beneath her hand, and the cunt tighten around her cock in response. She thrust from below, with her hips, her legs, her waist strangled by the ivory lace. Every thrust shook her completely. Sweat ran down her neck. Her orgasm gathered at the base of her cock like a storm that couldn’t be contained.

‘I’m coming,’ Malena whimpered. ‘I’m coming, Camila, I’m coming…’

‘Come, doll, come inside me, I want to feel it all spilling out of you… fill me up, drench this cunt…’

Malena came with a muffled cry. She spilled a long, trembling orgasm inside Camila’s cunt, emptying herself of entire years of silence. Her cock throbbed and throbbed and throbbed, shooting spurt after spurt, and Camila never stopped moving, riding her through the last contraction, wringing out every final drop, until Malena collapsed onto her back with her legs still trembling and her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Camila rose slowly. A white strand ran down the inside of her thigh, tangled in the crease of her groin, gleaming against her skin. She didn’t wipe it away. She settled beside her again and turned her slightly, embracing her from behind. She ran a hand over the still-wet lace at her waist. She bit the nape of her neck with a possessive sweetness. With two fingers she gathered a drop of her own orgasm mixed with Malena’s and put it on her lips.

‘Suck, doll. This is what we both taste like.’

Malena sucked obediently, eyes closed. And when she opened them again, her face was turned toward the large mirror, while Camila stood behind her, resting her chin on Malena’s shoulder, her breasts pressed against her bare back.

‘My Malena,’ she whispered. ‘My pretty little Malenita. You’re mine now. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Malena murmured, and for the first time it sounded like a true prayer.

And Mateo looked at himself. For the first time there was nothing ridiculous in the reflection. Only Malena, finally whole, trembling with pleasure and fear, makeup smeared, Camila’s orgasm shining on her chin, her cock still hard and the ivory lace rumpled over her hip, while the woman who possessed all the power in the world smiled over her shoulder and slid a slow hand along her lace-clad waist. Outside remained the temple, the looks, the rules. Inside, for the first time, someone saw her. And had no intention of letting her go.