The Night Daniela’s Neighbor Found Out Everything

To me, true friendship between a trans woman and a cis woman is something difficult to find and almost impossible to describe from the outside. The one I have with Daniela is that kind. We’ve worked together for three years—she’s my assistant, although in practice we’re partners in almost everything—and during that time we’ve built a dynamic very few people would understand if I explained it to them.

At the office, I’m in charge. In private, the roles are completely reversed. Daniela is dominant in a calm, absolute way: she doesn’t need to raise her voice for me to know exactly what she wants. She’s also the only person who sees me dressed in my entire range and treats me exactly the way I need to be treated. There’s something very powerful in that, and something very rare, too.

That night we left late. The project had gone on longer than expected, and it was almost eleven when we shut down the computers. I offered to drive her home; she accepted without thinking. We took South Avenue, and twenty minutes later we reached her neighborhood, one of those residential areas with low houses and tree-named streets.

When we reached her street, we saw two men sitting on the sidewalk in front of Daniela’s building. Plastic chairs, an almost-finished six-pack, and the look of men with nowhere else to be in the world. One was older and quiet, the kind who only speaks when it’s worth speaking. The other was completely different: talkative, direct, the kind who breaks the ice before you even notice there was ice.

They invited us to stay for a while. We rolled up the windows and let them into the car so we wouldn’t be sitting out in the open. Fifteen minutes later, there were four of us with the engine off and the music playing softly, talking about nothing in particular.

At some point in the conversation, whose origin I no longer remember clearly, poppers came up. The talkative man used them, knew them well, and had something like an informal catalog of what he could get. When I asked him for recommendations, he pulled out his phone without hesitation and started searching.

While he searched, my phone vibrated. A message from Daniela in the back seat:

“He’s bisexual. I caught him once fucking another guy, sucking his dick in a bathroom. Want to feel him out?”

I replied without moving:

“When we leave, I’ll hook him myself and see what happens. If he’s willing, I’ll fuck him tonight. I’ll let you know.”

She read it. She didn’t say anything out loud. With her hand, she made an almost imperceptible gesture that in our private language meant exactly: go ahead, I know what you’re doing.

***

The older man said goodbye first. Daniela got out five minutes later, using the perfect excuse that it was already late. We were alone: him in the passenger seat, me behind the wheel, the car still parked on the same street.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” I said, with just the right tone between seriousness and complicity. “But whatever we talk about here stays here. Can I trust you?”

He looked at me for a second before nodding.

“I’m bisexual,” I said, letting the word hang in the car by itself. “I like women. And I also like having my ass fucked.”

He raised his eyebrows. I expected that.

“And are you...?” he began, then stopped. “Sorry, I don’t know how to ask properly.”

“Trans. I have a dick, yes, but I hardly use it below the waist. When I’m dressed and with a man, all I want is for him to fuck my ass until I can’t remember my name.”

There was a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. The kind where someone is rearranging information and processing what it means. I saw him shift in his seat, saw the bulge in his pants settle into place by itself.

“Do you have pictures?” he finally asked, his voice already a little raspier.

I searched my phone. I chose a picture from a shoot a few months earlier: tight dress, high heels, evening makeup. Nothing explicit, but very clear about what I was showing. I handed it to him. He took the phone in both hands and began scrolling through the pictures in silence, concentrating like someone affected more deeply than he wanted to show.

He stopped at a lingerie shot. Black lace panties, completely hairless, my legs crossed on the bed and the bulge of my cock poorly concealed beneath the lace. He stared at it for several seconds.

“It looks real,” he murmured.

“It is real,” I replied. “Everything you see is exactly what’s there. Tits, ass, cock, everything. And it all works.”

He was holding the phone, but he was no longer looking at the screen. He was looking at me. His hand rested on his thigh, in a position that was anything but casual. I watched him slowly move it over the fabric, squeezing himself through his pants.

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“Yes. About fifteen minutes from here.”

“Will you take me there?”

“On one condition: when we get there, I’ll get properly dressed. Completely. I want you to see me as a slut, not as anyone’s friend. Deal?”

He nodded without pausing. He licked his lips.

***

On the way, I played a video from my phone. One of me with Adrián, a lover from Guadalajara I recorded some things with and keep for situations like this. In the video I’m on all fours, wearing red panties up to my knees, and Adrián is impaling my ass while pulling my hair. You can hear me moaning like a bitch in heat and begging him to fuck me harder in a half-broken voice.

My companion quickly shifted in his seat and unzipped his pants. He pulled out his cock and started stroking it while watching the screen, without saying a word. It was thick, thicker than I’d calculated, the head already red and swollen, with a fat drop of precum on the tip.

Before we reached the main intersection, we stopped in a dark parking lot. I took what he offered me in my right hand and jerked him off through the light, squeezing hard with my closed fist, moving slowly up and down and twisting my wrist around the crown the way I know men like. When we stopped completely, I leaned over the gearshift, stuck out my tongue, and licked him from his balls to the tip, back and forth, wetting him all over. Then I took him into my mouth without using my hands, as much as I could, until the head touched my uvula and my eyes filled with tears.

“Fuck,” he said through clenched teeth. “You suck like you’ve never done anything else in your life.”

I pulled him out with a wet sound and spat on him. I put him back in, this time shaking my head quickly and choking myself on purpose so he could feel my throat closing around his cock. I drooled all over his pants. I pulled him from my mouth with a strand of saliva hanging from my lip and smiled at him.

“What’s your name when you’re like this?” he asked, his voice already changed.

“Valeria,” I said, and started driving again.

“You suck really well, Valeria. Like an expensive whore.”

“I haven’t even started yet,” I replied.

I kept him in my hand the entire way, stroking him slowly so he wouldn’t come too soon. I squeezed his balls between my fingers and rolled them in my palm. A moan escaped him twice. A few blocks before we arrived, I zipped him up and told him to wait in the living room while I got ready.

***

I ran to the bedroom with the urgency of someone who knows exactly what she wants but needs to do it properly. I opened the closet. I chose the short white lace dress, semitransparent, the kind that lets the lingerie show through when there’s light behind it. Black lace panties, fishnet stockings, the corset that cinches my waist nicely. I placed the large silicone breasts into the cups of my bra—the kind that completely changes a body’s profile—and did my makeup with the speed and precision of someone who has been doing it for years. Black eyeliner, burgundy lipstick, a touch of highlighter on my cheekbones. I put on the wig when I could already hear his footsteps in the hallway.

I turned off the ceiling light. I switched on the corner lamp, the one that gives off a warm glow and flatters everything.

He came in.

He stopped in the doorway fully dressed, one hand already at his crotch, squeezing his cock through his pants. He looked me over from my feet to my face, slowly, with an expression that didn’t know whether to call itself surprise or hunger. It took him a moment to cross the room.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” he said.

“I know,” I replied. “Come fuck me.”

The first thing he did was lift my dress up over my thighs. Slowly, as if confirming something he’d already suspected. He slipped his hand beneath my panties, grabbed my cock, and chuckled softly when he felt it hard against the fabric.

“Well, look at that,” he said. “The slut gets hard, too.”

“Ignore it,” I whispered in his ear. “You’re not going to touch that. What’s mine is farther back.”

He pushed me toward him with his open palms on my buttocks and squeezed hard, spreading them apart over the lace. I felt his hard cock against my belly, still inside his pants, throbbing. He pulled my dress over my head calmly. He kissed me on the mouth, thrusting his tongue deep inside, biting my lip and sucking it. His hands never stopped: my back, my waist, my thighs, my ass, my ass again, his fingers sinking into the flesh. He pulled down one cup of my bra and sucked my nipple—real or not, the sensation when he bites the edge is real—and began panting against my neck.

He guided me backward toward the bed without stopping the kiss, and when we reached the edge, he gently pushed me until I was sitting in front of him, my face level with his fly.

I started going down.

***

I unbuckled his belt with both hands and yanked down his pants and briefs. His cock sprang out, hard and thick, pointing straight at my face. I kissed his abdomen, the line of his stomach, his hip, going lower and slower each time, making him wait. When I finally reached it, I took his cock between my hands and held it before bringing my mouth closer.

First, my lips barely brushed the head, unhurried, giving the tip wet little kisses. Then my tongue on the frenulum, slow and deliberate, making little circles right where I knew men died for it. I went down to the base and came back up, dragging my flat tongue along the entire length. I licked his balls one by one, slipped them carefully into my mouth, and held them there, sucking them softly while my hand moved up and down over what was outside.

When I took him all the way in again, I swallowed everything until my nose touched his pubic bone. He put one hand on my head. He wasn’t pushing yet, just following the movement. Then he did push. He grabbed my wig with both hands and began fucking my mouth at his own pace, without asking permission.

“God,” he said. “You really know what you’re doing. Suck it, slut, suck that cock.”

I gagged twice. Tears sprang to my eyes, and my makeup began running down my cheeks. The third time, I let myself go deeper, producing all the sounds and wetness the situation called for: the noises in my throat, the drool running down my chin, the short moans when I ran out of air. I clung to his thighs so I wouldn’t lose the angle. I worked up as much saliva as I could because I was going to need it later.

I pulled him out. I spat on him and jerked him off quickly with my hand covered in saliva, aiming him at my face and sticking out my tongue. I put him back in. I pulled him out. I sucked him from the side, my lips sliding along the whole length as if it were an ear of corn. I sucked him until I felt his legs begin to tremble, and then I stopped.

“Not yet,” I told him. “I want you to come inside me.”

When I stood up to get the condom and lubricant, he asked me:

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Long enough to know what I’m doing,” I said from the nightstand drawer. “Don’t worry. I’m going to drain you dry.”

He lay back on the bed with his cock pointing at the ceiling, red and shining with saliva. I put the condom on with my mouth, as I prefer, using the last blowjob to get him good and hard before putting it in place. Nobody complains when you do it that way. Neither did he. Another moan escaped him when I squeezed the base with my lips.

I applied the lubricant slowly and generously, letting it fall cold onto my hole so he could see the shine. I inserted one finger and opened myself slowly, eyes closed. Then two, moving them in a scissoring motion, loosening myself. He stroked himself while watching me, his hand moving slowly up and down over the condom. When I felt ready, I pulled my panties down to my thighs and left them there—because I like the look of clothing half removed—spread my legs, and climbed on top of him, looking him in the face.

***

I gripped his cock at the base, aimed it at my hole, and impaled myself on it, rolling my hips in a spiral and letting the tip work its way in first. The first stretch always requires attention: breathing, rhythm, letting the body adjust without forcing anything. I lowered myself little by little, holding my breath, feeling myself open inside, inch by inch, until my buttocks touched his thighs. Once I had him all the way inside, I stayed still for a second with my eyes closed and let out a long, guttural moan.

“Oh, Daddy, you’re so big,” I whispered. “You fill me completely.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, though his hands were buried in my waist and his jaw was clenched.

“Perfect,” I said, and began to move.

At first, slowly, finding the rhythm, rising just a little and then dropping hard so he could feel how deep he went. Then I arched backward, braced my hands on his knees, and gave him deep rides, fucking him with the full weight of my body. Every time I dropped, the wet slap of my buttocks against his thighs rang out, flesh bouncing against flesh. I changed the rhythm: circles, back and forth, fast and then very slowly so he could feel every inch going in and out. He gripped my hips and thrust up from below at exactly the right moments, meeting me halfway. Our timing matched without anyone having to negotiate it.

“Look at you riding,” he panted. “Taking every inch of it with that ass.”

“It’s yours,” I told him, squeezing hard inside. “This whole ass is yours tonight.”

He took my silicone tits and squeezed them, even though he knew I couldn’t feel it. He lowered one hand and grabbed my cock, which was twitching hard between us, wet with precum. He jerked me in time with my downward strokes, and I almost fell. I pushed his hand away.

“Leave that alone,” I told him. “I come with my ass or I don’t come. Fuck me harder.”

I changed positions. I got on all fours on the bed, arching my back to raise my ass high and offer it open. He positioned himself behind me without my having to say anything, spread my buttocks with both hands, and paused for a second, staring at my open hole while stroking his cock.

“Fuck, look at that little ass,” he said, and spat on me.

He drove into me in one thrust, all the way to the bottom. I screamed into the pillow. He began pumping hard, his hands firm on my waist, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back inside me. Each thrust pushed me forward; I backed into him to meet it halfway. The slap of skin against skin rang out, wet and obscene, filling the room. Our movements were completely synchronized, as if we’d been fucking like this for a long time.

He slapped one cheek. Then the other. He dug his fingers into my hip and sped up.

“Tell me you like it,” he panted.

“I love it,” I moaned. “Put it all in, don’t stop, break me.”

He grabbed my wig, twisted it around his fist, and pulled my head backward, arching me farther. With his other hand, he slapped my ass in time with his thrusts. I pushed backward, seeking every penetration, squeezing him inside each time he pulled out so it would be harder for him to slide back in.

I put a pillow beneath my abdomen and closed my legs, leaving my ass raised. With that angle, my hole tightened, and every movement of his reached deeper, more precisely, pushing exactly where it needed to. I clung to the headboard and thrust backward harder. I felt my own cock, trapped between my belly and the pillow, rubbing with every thrust. I began moaning uncontrollably, without a filter now, slutty growls in my broken voice.

“Yes, Daddy, like that, fuck my ass, fuck it, never stop.”

“Where do you want me to finish?” he asked, his voice hoarse and already on the edge.

“Inside,” I said. “I want you to come inside me, fill me, I want to feel it.”

His movements became shorter and harder, almost frantic. He drove so deep I felt his balls striking me. I felt the exact moment he finished: the way he sank in and went still, squeezing hard, his cock pulsing inside me like a drum. I begged him not to pull out. I began squeezing rhythmically, the exercises I practice specifically for this, milking him from inside. I heard him exhale sharply and moan against my back.

“That’s incredible,” he said in a broken voice. “Don’t pull it out, stay like this.”

“I know,” I replied, and kept squeezing until I felt the last shudder.

I slipped my hand between my belly and the pillow, grabbed my own cock, and came with three strokes, wetting the sheet and squeezing him so hard inside me during my climax that he let out another moan behind me. We stayed like that for a while, him on top, my face pressed into the mattress, sweaty, breathing hard, still connected.

When he finally pulled out, slowly, he did it carefully and watched as my hole stayed open for a second before closing. He gave me a soft slap, almost affectionate.

***

We lay in silence for a while. He was on his back, I was beside him, and the corner lamp was still on. Outside, the quiet street could be heard. It was past midnight.

Before leaving, he asked if he could come back. I told him yes, that he should let Daniela know and she would pass the message along. He laughed a little, not fully understanding the joke. I didn’t tell him that Daniela already knew exactly how the night had ended. She probably knew the approximate time, too.

Now I’m just waiting for the Neighbor to keep his word. If he comes back, I’ll tell you all about it.