The Trans Woman the Neighbor Couldn’t Keep for Himself

It was a Sunday that promised nothing.

The kind of afternoon when time thickens and presses you into the couch without any justification at all. There was a soccer match on outside, one of the important ones, the kind that splits the city in two and fills the bars with people screaming for teams whose names they don’t even know. I could have cared less about that noise. Neither team did anything for me, and the only possible salvation for the afternoon was the prospect that it would all end at some point.

I stayed in the apartment. I lit something, let my head open up a little, and opened a dating app more out of habit than any real need. Going in and looking had become a Sunday ritual: a way to kill time, sometimes a power game, sometimes a trap I set for myself. I’m entertained by the fauna. The ones who lie about everything from the first message. The ones who think they’re irresistible without having anything to back up that conviction. The ones who ask for photos before they say good afternoon. If I had the chance to make someone who deserved it have a bad time, I didn’t waste it.

I was about to close it when the tap came in.

Three hundred meters. Close. Too close to ignore with an entire Sunday ahead of me and no concrete plan.

We wrote for a while. Half an hour, maybe a little more. He didn’t seem like an idiot, which is already saying a lot on this app. He spoke well, replied without too much delay, and didn’t ask for anything he shouldn’t have asked for in the first five minutes. I told myself yes. I told myself: a Sunday with no plans, someone three hundred meters away who seems reasonably decent, no reason to sit there staring at the ceiling.

I went.

***

I have my rituals and I don’t rush them for anyone.

I showered calmly, put on perfume at the spots that matter, and laid out my clothes with the same care any woman puts into choosing what she wants to be that night. Dark leggings that showed just enough to leave no doubt about what was underneath. A light fabric blouse, almost sheer. Purple lingerie underneath, matching, and not expected to be seen by anyone, though sometimes the clothes no one sees are the ones that matter most to have on. The sweatshirt on top for going out into the street without the afternoon making life difficult.

In my bag I packed the rest: the brown wig, the prosthetics, the black lace nightgown for later, everything needed when one goes out to be who one really is. Discretion is not cowardice. It’s survival.

I sent him my location.

He showed up.

***

He lived three floors above where I had imagined. He shared the place with roommates who that afternoon weren’t there or preferred not to show up; in any case, we went to the room without crossing paths with anyone, like shadows that know where they’re going.

His room was exactly what I expected: tidy on the surface, with that careful chaos of someone who cleans up when they know company is coming but don’t have time for more. A big bed, dim light, low music no one was really listening to.

I finished getting ready in the bathroom. I settled the wig in front of the mirror, touched up my lipstick, checked that everything was in place. That was when I saw the setup on the sink: two glass pipes, a sealed baggie, the orderly ritual of someone who had already been in night mode long before I arrived.

“You into sweets?” I asked, looking at him through the mirror.

“Yeah,” he said, with the calm of someone who doesn’t apologize for what he is. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

I took my own bag out of my purse. I’d come prepared for that too.

“Well, if you’re not inviting me to your ritual, I’m going to be properly annoyed,” I replied, and smiled in a way that was not entirely innocent.

We smoked together. The room heated up with a speed that had nothing to do with the heating. With each hit, something electric ran through me, starting in my chest and ending where things end when you allow yourself to really feel them. A strange clarity, an opening, the walls of the everyday dissolving and giving way to something cleaner. I let the smoke out slowly, turned toward him, and kissed him as if I had been waiting hours to do it.

I shoved my tongue all the way into his mouth while I went for the package over his pants. He was already hard, pressing thickly against the fabric, and I closed my hand around him to feel the full shape. I pulled down the zipper without stopping kissing him, reached in, took his cock out into the air, and worked it dry, slowly, with my fist closed just below the head. A low moan slipped out against my mouth and I smiled, because I like it when that happens before they can hide it.

His phone vibrated on the little table.

I saw him hesitate. I saw him look at the screen. I saw him read the message with that expression of someone calculating how much the question he is about to ask is going to cost him.

“Hey, babe,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “Do you mind if a friend comes by?”

My eyes widened before I could control them.

“If you don’t mind, obviously,” he insisted. He held out the phone. A profile photo: medium-built guy, open face, a smile like someone who has nothing to prove. Photogenic, if you were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Not bad.

“The more, the merrier,” I said. And I meant it completely.

***

The friend arrived fifteen minutes later. My neighbor went down to open the door; I settled onto the bed, crossed my legs, and waited in the role that belonged to me. When he came in, both of them looked at me with that particular attention of people who don’t quite know what to expect but are ready to find out.

We smoked the three of us. A silence that wasn’t uncomfortable but charged, the kind that keeps building pressure until someone makes the first move. I made the first move.

I leaned toward the newcomer and kissed him. He responded without hesitation, grabbing the back of my neck and sliding his tongue in with the hunger of someone who has been thinking about this for hours. My neighbor came in from the other side, swept the hair away from my neck, and started working there with his lips, slowly, like someone who knows haste ruins the good things. I had one hand between one of their legs and the other exploring what was under the other man’s clothes. Everything at once, as if the body knew exactly how many fronts it can handle when you let it. I unbuttoned the friend’s pants without breaking the kiss, reached in, and grabbed his cock at the base: hot, hard, with that thick vein pulsing under my fingers. I jerked him off slowly while my neighbor bit my earlobe.

“Take that off,” said the friend, in the low, direct voice of someone not asking permission. “I want to see you.”

I took off the leggings. I was left in a thong, without the prosthetics, exposed in a way some people find hard to process. Not these two. I stretched out on the bed with my legs slightly apart and neither of them hesitated.

“Take off the prosthetics too,” the friend whispered. “I want to lick your nipples.”

A shiver ran all the way down my spine. I stripped everything off, left bare-chested, and the friend dove on top of me. He sucked one nipple into his whole mouth, tugging with closed lips, while his hand pinched the other until I arched my back. My neighbor ran his tongue over that same nipple when the friend let go, and I felt the two mouths taking turns, warm, hungry, their tongues sometimes crossing over my skin. Everything hardened on me. My cock hardened too inside the thong, pressing against the purple fabric, and the friend saw it and smiled.

“Look how hard he’s got it,” he said, looking at my neighbor. “Take that off him.”

My neighbor yanked the thong off my ankles. I was left completely naked, my cock standing up against my stomach, and the two of them stared at me for a second like people assessing where to start. The friend started down. Slowly, with that kind of deliberate slowness that knows exactly what it’s doing. He traced my thighs with his tongue, my hips, the inside of my knees. He ran his tongue flat over my balls, one first, then the other, and I gripped the sheets with both hands because I knew the good part was coming. He worked his way up the shaft with his tongue, licking it from base to head, and when he got to the top he took the whole thing into his mouth, all the way down, until I felt his throat closing around the tip.

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” I blurted out, my voice rough.

He sucked me deep, without gagging, mouth open and tongue working underneath as he moved up and down. He squeezed my balls with one hand and with the other spread my legs wider, leaving me fully exposed. My neighbor took advantage and slipped two fingers into my mouth; I sucked them with the same hunger the friend was using to suck my cock below. When he pulled them out, he brought them to my ass. He rubbed them there, at the entrance, not pushing in, just pressing, until it opened on its own and he shoved the first finger in to the knuckles. I let out the first real moan of the night. Genuine, uncontrolled, the kind that escapes by itself.

I get lost in these moments. The role, the persona, the body I have all melt into one thing that doesn’t need a name. I’m a bottom and I’m not ashamed of it in the slightest. I like watching men working down there, between my legs, giving me exactly what my body asks for without needing an explanation.

While the friend kept going below, now with his tongue in my ass, eating me out with his hands spreading my cheeks, my neighbor knelt at head level. He offered me what he had: a thick cock, a little curved, with a fat drop of liquid gleaming at the tip. I took it into my mouth, slowly at first and then with more hunger, savoring that salty drop before swallowing him whole. I held his balls with one hand while I sucked him, taking him to the back of my throat each time he pushed in, letting him use my mouth however he wanted. He pulled out, slapped my cheek with it a couple of times, and shoved it back in. I let him do whatever he wanted. That’s the point of being where I was.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I took a condom from the drawer he indicated with a gesture and put it on the way I like to put them on: with my mouth, without any rush, sliding it down to the base with my lips, lubricating it with my tongue until it was ready and he could no longer wait.

“Switch,” my neighbor said.

I tucked a pillow under my hips and lifted my legs. The friend spit on my ass, spread the saliva with his thumb, and my neighbor got into position. He came in. Slowly at first, with the precision of someone who knows haste doesn’t help here. I felt every centimeter. I felt the head make its way in first, the ring give, then the whole shaft sliding in until I felt his balls flatten against my ass. He stayed there for a second, buried all the way in, letting me get used to it. Then he started moving. Short at first, pulling out just a little and then sinking back in, and then longer, coming almost all the way out to slam back in to the hilt. The friend held my ankles from above, forcing me to keep my eyes open, to see everything with nowhere to look except exactly what was happening. With his other hand he jerked me off slowly, matching the rhythm of the other man’s thrusts.

“Daddy,” I told him in his ear when he turned me over. “You’re riding me like the bitch I am.”

Face down. Ass up. A pillow taking the weight of my hips. He leaned over my back and kept going from there, slowly at first, then harder, with that cadence that builds something impossible to fake. Each thrust pulled a new moan from me, higher-pitched, and the sound of his hips hitting my ass filled the entire room. The friend knelt in front of me, grabbed my hair, and shoved his cock into my mouth at the same time. They started fucking me from both sides at once, synchronized, one pushing in front while the other came out behind, and I stopped having control over anything. I was only an open mouth and an open ass, taking what they gave me.

“Do you like being my little slut?” my neighbor asked in my ear, his mouth so close I felt the heat of the words before I heard them.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice broken because he had just taken his cock out of my mouth. “Say it again.”

What came next was a list I received with my eyes closed and my body open. Whore. Bitch. Slut. Faggot. Little queer. Each word landing like something that hurt in a way that wasn’t pain but something more like relief, the kind of release that only comes when someone tells you exactly what you wanted to hear. He fucked me harder with every word, hand clenched on my hip, and I clung to the sheets and pushed my ass back, asking for more. In the end he spit in my mouth with that brutal tenderness that only exists in situations like this, and I took it with my eyes open because I prefer to watch when they turn me into what I want to be.

***

They switched positions with the natural ease of two people who don’t need to discuss the details. The friend lay on his back, put on a new condom, and I climbed on top. I grabbed his cock, lined it up at my entrance, and sat down slowly, letting him open me from the inside. When I had him all the way in, I stayed still for a second, breathing, feeling him throb in there. Then I started moving. Me on top of the friend, moving to the rhythm he set with his hands on my hips, my ass slapping against his thighs in that rhythm that keeps growing until there’s no way to control it anymore. He grabbed the fake tits I wasn’t even wearing, laughed, grabbed my flat chest, and pinched my nipples until I screamed. My neighbor behind me, standing beside the bed, waiting his turn with the patience of someone who knows it’s coming. He came up behind me and put his cock in my mouth over my shoulder; I sucked what I could in that twisted posture, the other one driving into me harder and harder from below.

Then my neighbor moved. He climbed behind me on the bed, grabbed my hips to hold me still for a second, and started pushing. I felt the tip against the already occupied ring and for a moment thought it wasn’t going to fit. But he pushed slowly, spitting for lubrication, and it went in little by little beside the other cock. I felt both of them in there at once, pressed against each other, filling me in a way I had never felt before. The three of us stayed still for a few seconds, breathing, and then they started moving out of sync, one going up when the other went down, double-fucking me with no rush but no mercy either. I cried and laughed at the same time, my face pressed against the friend’s chest, moaning things I didn’t even understand myself.

When the friend reached the limit, he let out a long, deep groan that ran through my whole spine. I felt his cock swell inside me, pulse several times, and discharge into the condom with a tremor that went through his whole body. I came too over his stomach almost at the same time, in that involuntary synchronicity that sometimes happens and can’t be planned in any way. I felt the hot spurts coming out without being touched, splashing over his belly and chest, while my neighbor kept moving behind me and prolonged the orgasm to the point where I no longer knew whether it was pleasure or something beyond it.

I lay between the two of them, my body still in that high frequency where everything beats a little faster than normal and the edges of things are softened.

My neighbor wasn’t done yet. He pulled out of me, took off the condom, and lifted my face with one hand, not roughly but without hiding it. I asked him to finish over my glasses, to leave his mark where I could see it. I knelt in front of him, took him in my mouth one last time, sucking with my cheeks hollowed out, and waited. I worked the shaft with my tongue, licked the head in circles, squeezed his balls with my hand until I felt he was close. When the signal came, I leaned back slightly and took what was left on my skin: a thick stream that crossed my forehead and my glasses, another over my cheek, a final one over my parted lips. I stuck out my tongue and caught what I could. I stayed like that for a moment, kneeling, face marked, looking up at him while he breathed hard.

I went to the bathroom to clean up. I put on the black lace nightgown I had in my bag. I came back to the room. I lay down between the two of them in that silence that remains when everything that had to be done has been done and there is nothing left to say.

We stayed like that for almost an hour.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t friendship. It was something simpler and more honest than all that: three people in a room, a Sunday that had started with no destination and ended up being exactly what it needed to be.

When I left, the afternoon was still gray outside.

But I left walking a little lighter.