The Tranny I Dream of Being for One Night

I’m writing again, and this time I’m not bringing a story that happened. I’m bringing something that lives only inside my head, a fantasy I repeat so many times at night that I already know every detail by heart. I haven’t done it and maybe I never will, and I think that’s exactly why it turns me on so much, because every time I jerk off to it I can stretch it as far as I want without reality ruining it for me.

I’ll start with the hard part, without beating around the bush. I’m in a relationship. I can be incredibly horny when I want to be, but I’m faithful, and I’m not going to change that while it lasts. Fantasy, on the other hand, knows nothing about promises. It’s there every time I’m alone, patient, waiting for me to turn off the light and pull down my pants.

It’s a simple fantasy, I don’t want to waste your time with detours. It has to do with how I dress. With becoming, for one single night, a real little girl who gets fucked good and hard.

***

It all starts in the bathroom. I close the door even if there’s no one home, as if the ritual demanded that gesture. The first thing is to get rid of the hair, all of it, until the skin is completely smooth. I imagine doing it slowly, without rushing, feeling how each pass leaves the leg bare in a different way, softer, more alien. I also shave between my legs, around my cock and back there, all the way to the asshole, because in the fantasy everything has to be clean and exposed.

When I’m done I get under the hot water. The steam clouds everything and I stay there for a long while, letting the heat loosen me up. Under the stream I run soapy fingers over my ass, sliding between my cheeks, and I slide the tip of one finger into the hole to feel it pulse, to get it used to what’s coming. My cock gets hard instantly and I hold back so I don’t come too fast. I get out, dry myself off only a little, and then comes the part I like best of this first stage: the cream. I spread it all over my body, slowly, over my shoulders, my stomach, my thighs. Hairless skin soaks it up differently. I run my palm over my thigh and I barely recognize myself. This isn’t my usual body anymore.

There’s something about feeling so smooth, so clean, that puts my head somewhere else. It’s as if by taking off the hair I also strip away the man I am for the rest of the day. And what’s left underneath is her, a little slut with a hard cock waiting to be dressed.

***

The underwear has been chosen for a long time, even if it only exists in my imagination. A pair of panties with a sheer mesh panel right over the back, over the ass, so it can be seen and not seen at the same time. And a lace bra to match the bottom piece, the same shade, because for me that coordination is half the fantasy.

I imagine putting on the panties first, pulling them slowly up my freshly shaved legs, feeling how the lace hugs me and how it barely contains the hard cock outlined at the front. Then the bra, fastening it behind my back with the clumsiness I’d have the first time. I don’t have tits to fill it, of course, and that even amuses me in the fantasy, but it doesn’t matter. The lace against the smooth skin is already enough to make everything speed up and make a drop of pre-cum leak onto the fabric.

I stand there for a moment, in lingerie, looking at myself out of the corner of my eye. I take my hand to the bulge and squeeze it through the lace, feeling it throb. That’s the point where the fantasy stops being a game and starts being something else, something much dirtier.

***

Then comes the outer clothes, and here I always hesitate between two options, because I like both for different reasons.

The first is a pleated skirt, one that reaches a little above the knees. I hope I’m making myself clear: the kind of skirt that moves on its own with every step, that with a sudden turn threatens to lift too high and leave the ass bare. I like it because it has something innocent and something provocative at the same time, that contradiction that drives whoever’s watching crazy and gets his cock hard as a rock without him having to do anything.

The second option is a tight skirt, the kind that shows everything. I’d choose that on nights when I want to feel less like a girl and more like a woman, when I want the curve to show when I walk and for anyone behind me not to be able to stop staring at my tight little ass.

On top, a blouse or a thin, fitted sweater, the kind that clings to the body and lets the bra show through underneath. Let the lace be outlined, let it be suggested. Thin fabric against hairless skin, that’s what I’m after, that sensation of being dressed in something that gives way at the slightest touch, something anybody with enough desire could rip off me in one tug.

***

And then the heels. Stilettos, high, the kind that force you to walk differently. I imagine strapping them around my ankles, and the first shaky step, and the second one firmer, until I learn to move like a bitch, which is the only way to describe it. The heels change my posture, lift my hips, make me stick out the chest I don’t have and push my ass back. And they look sexy, just like a pair of earrings on a man: something small that changes everything.

Lastly, the wig. Long hair, falling over my face when I bow my head, ideal for when I’m on my knees with a cock in my mouth. And some makeup, not much, just enough to have different eyes, a different mouth. I line my eyes, paint my lips red, those lips that are going to get smeared from sucking, and when I look in the mirror I’m no longer me.

That moment in front of the mirror is the heart of the whole fantasy. I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s what turns me on most of all. More than anything that comes after. Seeing that little girl staring back at me, knowing it’s me and at the same time not me. I turn sideways to look at the skirt. I touch my thigh over the sheer stocking. I smile the way she would smile, with her mouth half open, tongue peeking out, ready to suck.

That’s how I’d look. That’s how I’d go out. That’s how they’d fuck me.

***

Because the fantasy doesn’t end in the mirror. From there I go out into the street, and a man is waiting for me. In my head he has a face, though it changes from night to night. Sometimes I call him Damián, a big guy, broad hands, with a thick cock making a bulge in his pants when he sees me coming. He looks me up and down like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and runs his tongue over his teeth.

—You look incredible —he’d say—. You’re gonna make me hard right here and now, you little slut.

I’d lower my eyes with a shyness I never have in real life, squeezing my thighs together, feeling the lace of the panties biting into my ass crack.

We get into his car. He starts driving, but we don’t go far, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the ride. As soon as we take the first corner, his hand leaves the gearshift and settles on my knee. I don’t move it away. That’s the rule of the game: never move it away.

The hand slowly travels up, first the knee, then the thigh, feeling the smooth skin above the hem of the skirt. Every centimeter it advances raises goose bumps on my skin. He slips it under the fabric while he drives, without looking at me, with that confidence that melts me. His fingers reach my panties and pull them aside, finding my hard cock against the lace. He grabs it without saying a word, weighs it in his hand, squeezes it, and I have to bite my lip not to moan.

—Look what the little girl has down here —he murmurs, smiling—. Hard as a rock for me.

And I, meanwhile, rest my hand on his crotch and start stroking him over his pants. I fumble the zipper down and pull his cock out into the open while he drives. It’s thick, blood-red from pooled blood, with a shiny tip. I lean over the gearshift, with the wig falling over my face, and put it in my mouth. I suck it slowly at first, licking the tip, covering it in spit. Then I take it deep, feeling it hit my throat and make my eyes water over my eyeliner. He puts a hand on the back of my neck and pushes me lower, until a gag slips out of me.

—That’s it, little slut, that’s it, suck that cock like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

And I do suck it. I suck it hungrily, pressing my painted lips against the shaft, letting a string of saliva drip down my chin and stain my sweater. When I pull back for a second to breathe, it’s shining with my own spit, and I kiss it along the sides, lick it from the balls to the tip. I can feel it growing under my tongue. That part of the fantasy I repeat a lot: noticing how it gets harder and harder for me, for the little girl I’ve become, for the pleated skirt and the heels and the lace showing beneath the sweater. It’s the confirmation that the disguise worked. That he doesn’t see the man from daytime. He sees her, a little slut with a mouth full of cock.

***

We get somewhere, an apartment, a room, it doesn’t matter. In the fantasy the places are never fully defined, they’re just walls and a bed. What is defined is what happens there.

He takes me against the wall before I can say anything. He kisses me hard, with one hand still under my skirt, pushing two fingers into my mouth so I can suck them while with the other hand he gropes my ass over the lace. I suck obediently, looking him in the eyes, because that’s what I came for. To be his girl. To be submissive. To let him use me however he wants and for me not to have to decide anything, only obey and open every hole.

He turns me to face the wall. He hikes my skirt up to my waist and stops to look at the panties, that sheer mesh over the ass that I chose thinking of this exact moment. I hear him breathing behind me. He runs his hand over the lace, slowly, savoring what he found, and I arch my back toward him, sticking my ass out, offering it to him.

—You dressed up for this, didn’t you? —he’d say in my ear—. So I could fuck this little slut ass of yours.

—Yes —I whisper—, I dressed up for that. For you. Fuck me.

He pulls the panties down just a little, just enough to leave my ass bare. He doesn’t take off my heels, never, because part of the kink is staying dressed as her while he does whatever he wants. He kneels behind me and spreads my cheeks with both hands. I feel his hot tongue on my asshole, licking me from top to bottom, salivating the hole, pushing the tip in and out, until I’m so wet back there my legs shake. He eats my ass like it’s a cunt, a long while, until I’m moaning against the wall with my cock dripping inside the panties.

He stands up. He spits on his cock, rubs it against my entrance, and starts pushing. At first it hurts, the opening resists, and he goes slowly, gaining ground, a centimeter, two, until suddenly it gives and he shoves it all the way in. I scream against the wall with my mouth open, no voice, and he stays still for a second, letting me feel how he fills me, how his cock throbs inside me.

—You’re so tight, little slut —he pants—. I’m gonna split you in two.

And he starts fucking me. Hard thrusts, hip against hip, his hands gripping my hips beneath the hitched-up skirt. With every stroke I rise in the heels, I wobble, and he holds me and slams into me again. I hear the sound of flesh, his balls slapping against my perineum, my own breath muffled against the wall. The wig sticks to my face with sweat.

He grabs the fake hair, yanking my head back, and fucks me harder, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt. I let him use me, arching my back, pushing my ass into him, squeezing when he drives into me. My hard cock bounces against the wall with every thrust and lets out little spurts of fluid that stain the plaster.

He turns me around, throws me on the bed on my back, with the skirt still bunched at my waist and the heels dangling in the air. He folds my legs against my chest, opens me wide, and shoves his cock back into my ass, this time looking at my face. Seeing my smudged makeup, the trembling painted lips, the messy wig gets him hotter. He fucks me while looking me in the eyes, and I grip the backs of my knees to open myself wider for him, so he can put it in as deep as he wants.

—Open up, girl, open up wide for your man.

—Yes, like that, deeper, harder, break me.

He spits in my mouth and I swallow it. He gives my face a soft slap, with a hand that smells like my own ass, and I kiss it, lick it, while he keeps driving into me. He grabs my cock over the pulled-aside panties and shakes it in time with his thrusts. I can feel everything collecting down low, the smooth skin breaking out in goose bumps, the lace of the bra digging into my hard nipples.

I come without barely touching myself, spattering semen over my fitted sweater, staining myself with hot jizz while he keeps tearing my ass apart. The spasms clamp down on the cock inside me and he lets out a roar and buries himself to the hilt and comes inside me, filling me, and I feel him throbbing with every shot.

***

I’m not going to tell the ending in all its detail, because the truth is that in the fantasy I never arrive at a fixed ending. It changes. Sometimes he’s the one in charge from start to finish and leaves me tossed on the bed with my ass open and his load dripping down my thighs. Sometimes, at some point, I’m the one who turns around and looks at him, and even if I’m his submissive girl there’s a moment when he understands I came because I wanted to, not because I was forced. And that mix of surrender and my own desire is what makes the scene perfect.

What always repeats, what never fails, is the feeling. Being inside a body that isn’t my everyday one. Hearing my own heels on the floor, feeling the wet, sticky lace soaked with semen, the wig falling over my face while someone treats me like the slut I am only in the darkness of my head.

***

After that I open my eyes and go back to being who I am. The faithful man, the one in the relationship, the one who gets up tomorrow and shaves his face and dresses the same as always. There’s no skirt, no heels, no Damián. Just me, in my bed, with my cock in my hand, my belly wet with cum and my heart still racing.

And I’m not ashamed. On the contrary. I think it’s precisely because I know I’m never going to do it that the fantasy stays so intense. A tranny, even if it’s only in imagination, gets a huge kink out of the idea of what to wear, how to look in the mirror, who to be for one night and how many cocks she can swallow. At least for me, it turns me on like very few things do.

I’ve got more fantasies tucked away, others as detailed as this one, which I hope I can tell another day. And who knows. Maybe, if someday I stop being with the person I’m with now, one of them will stop living only in my head and end up with a real cock in my ass.

For now I’m sticking with the mirror, with the little girl staring back at me from the other side, and with the secret. Kisses.