The Transsexual Woman Hiding a Perverse Secret

I met Selene the winter she joined the department where I had already been working for several years. She arrived one gray Monday, a folder under her arm and a measured smile, and introduced herself to each of us with a formality that was almost old-fashioned. She was a serious woman, with restrained gestures, though always kind. Within weeks she proved she was devilishly competent: she could solve in one morning what took the rest of us days.

She was fully into middle age. She wore thin-framed glasses, wore only the barest makeup, and dressed in a sober, almost austere way, as if she wanted to go unnoticed. And yet I liked her from day one. If you looked closely, you discovered she was beautiful, with dark, expressive eyes that seemed to be laughing inwardly. Beneath that modest clothing there was also a body of soft, firm curves that the sobriety of her outfit could not quite conceal.

We clicked right away. We shared the same dry humor, the same obsession with doing things properly, and little by little our coffee breaks grew longer. After a few months we were good friends, the kind who confide things in a low voice while the rest of the office types away, oblivious to everything.

One afternoon, when there was already enough trust between us, Selene lowered her voice and told me she had something to tell me. She toyed with the rim of her cup, not quite daring to look at me.

—I want you to hear it from me, not from anyone else —she said at last—. I’m transsexual. A transvestite, if you prefer the old word. I was born in a body that wasn’t mine, and I’ve spent years correcting that mistake.

She said it like someone confessing a sin, tense, waiting for the blow. There was no blow.

—It’s no problem for me —I replied—. I’ve got no prejudice about that. You’re still the same Selene who saves my ass every time I get an argument stuck.

She let out the breath she’d been holding and laughed, relieved. From that moment on, she opened up to me in a different way. She told me things about her life, about the hard years, about what she had had to fight through to become who she was. One afternoon, on her phone, she showed me some photos of herself. In several of them she was made up and dressed very differently from how she dressed for work: tight clothes, high heels, a shameless smile I didn’t know from her.

—You look gorgeous there —I told her, and I meant it—. I wish I could see you like that someday.

She tilted her head with a sly look that made my skin prickle.

—Who knows —she answered—. Maybe the opportunity will come up.

I could never have imagined then how close I was to seeing that wish fulfilled. Much less how far it would go.

***

The opportunity came a few weeks later. The director dumped a couple of devilish reports on us, urgent as well as complicated, and I could see Selene sinking under the pressure. I offered to help without thinking twice. We stayed several evenings until late, with the office empty and the coffee machines humming away, dividing columns of figures and rewriting sentences together. Between the two of us we got the job done on time.

She was so grateful that, almost as an apology for the stolen hours, she invited me to dinner at her place the following Friday.

—I cook better than I write reports —she joked—. And that’s saying something.

On Friday, at the agreed time, I showed up at her building with a bouquet of flowers I’d bought on the way. I pressed the intercom and her voice, distorted by the speaker, let me in. I went up in a narrow elevator that smelled of old wood and, when I reached the landing, found the apartment door ajar.

—Come in, come in! —I heard from inside—. I’m in the kitchen finishing a couple of things.

I went in, closed the door behind me, and headed into the living room. I left the flowers on the table and started looking curiously at the ornaments on a sideboard: ceramic figurines, a couple of photographs, an ashtray that looked as if it had never been used. Almost immediately I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to greet her and the surprise left me speechless.

To begin with, she wasn’t wearing glasses. She had done her makeup very differently from at work, suggestive, perhaps a little heavy, but damnably sensual. Her lips painted a deep red, her eyes lined, her lashes long. As for the outfit, she wore a black pencil skirt that hugged her hips and thighs like a second skin, and a tight light-violet blouse, short-sleeved and off the shoulders, that hinted at the line of her collarbone and the taut swell of tits far more generous than her office clothes had ever suggested.

—Well? —she asked, turning slowly on her heels—. What do you think of me?

—You’re gorgeous —I answered, and my voice came out rougher than I intended—. Really, you look incredible.

She smiled, coquettish, pleased with the effect she was having. She thanked me for the flowers and the compliment with a small theatrical bow and invited me to sit down.

***

We ate without rushing. She had prepared a stew that smelled like Sundays from childhood and a bottle of red wine that gradually loosened our conversation. We talked, we laughed, we interrupted each other to tell the same anecdote at once. Candlelight softened the outlines, and with each glass the distance between us shortened without either of us quite deciding it.

At some point we stopped talking about the office. Selene told me how she had learned to love herself, in front of the mirror, one item of clothing at a time, until the woman in the reflection stopped being a promise and became a certainty. I listened with my elbow on the table and my glass forgotten in my hand, fascinated by the calm confidence with which she spoke about her own body. The more I listened, the more I wanted to touch her, and I think she noticed it in my silences.

At the end of the second course, Selene rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with an intention that was no longer innocent in the least.

—Do you want dessert? —she asked.

—Depends what you’ve got —I answered, playing along.

Then she stood up, walked around the table, and took her place beside me. She leaned down until her perfume filled my head and whispered in a new voice, sweet and low:

—What do you think of me for dessert? I can be sweeter than any cake. And a lot juicier.

And, without taking her eyes off me, she lifted her skirt with two fingers.

Underneath she was wearing dark smoke-colored stockings, with a straight seam down the back, held up by a black lace garter belt that hugged her thighs. Between the garter straps, a tiny matching lace panty, so narrow and so taut it barely covered the warm, prominent bulge beneath, a bulge that rose diagonally and betrayed, beyond any doubt, how turned on she already was. The shoes were very high heels, a deep purple that matched her gaze. The whole outfit had been thought out, calculated, assembled for that moment. For me.

I looked at her slowly, from the heels to the neckline, and when I looked back into her eyes I didn’t bother to hide it.

—Well, the truth is —I said— I want you a lot.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I sprang up, wrapped my arms around her, and pressed my lips to hers. The kiss was long, hungry, the kind that erases the whole room. Our tongues searched for each other without protocol, tangled together, sucked each other with a greed that admitted no disguise. I bit her lower lip and she moaned into my mouth, a deep, hoarse sound that went straight down to my crotch and had my cock hard in two seconds. My hands went down her back to her ass and stayed there, kneading those firm, round cheeks over the tight skirt, squeezing them, spreading them, pressing them against my pelvis. I slowly hiked the fabric up, wrinkling it around her waist, until my fingers found bare skin: the top of her thigh above the stocking, the hot edge of flesh, and higher up the tight curve of her ass barely covered by the lace strip. I slipped my hand under the panty, felt one whole cheek, squeezed hard, and then slid my finger between the two, following the groove until I brushed her tight asshole. She trembled against me and let out a new moan, sharper, more obscene.

She answered by pressing herself to me as if she wanted to melt into me and sliding her hand between our bodies, searching for me over my pants, palming my hard cock through the fabric and measuring me from top to bottom with her hand. She didn’t stop there. She lowered the zipper with the skill of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing, slipped her fingers through the open fly, bypassed the elastic of my briefs, and pulled my shaft out into the air in one tug. She held it for a moment in her palm, weighing it, then closed her fist around the base and started stroking me slowly, up and down, with a precision that tore a long gasp from deep in my chest.

—Mmm... what a nice cock you’ve got —she whispered into my ear, squeezing the foreskin and pulling it down to uncover me completely—. You’ve already got it rock-hard for me. And when desire takes over, I become someone else. A real shameless slut.

—Wow —I answered, my voice broken, not letting go of her ass—. How interesting. And what exactly are you capable of?

—Whatever you want —she replied, wickedly, biting my earlobe while she kept pumping my cock slowly—. I’m really good at sucking cock, believe me. I genuinely enjoy it when a man lets himself go between my lips, when he shoves it all the way down my throat and I take it without coughing, when he comes in my mouth and I swallow every last drop of cum. And I love being fucked in the ass, without mercy, until I’m out of breath and cum is dripping down the insides of my thighs.

As she said it, I yanked her blouse downward, freeing a round, firm tit above the lace bra. I pinched her dark nipple, hard as a pebble, and she arched her back and hissed with pleasure. I lowered my mouth and sucked it hungrily, tugging at it with my teeth, while my free hand stayed under her skirt kneading her ass. Then I guided that hand forward and slid it over the tight panty. Beneath the lace I found what I knew I would find: a hard, thick cock, pushing against the fabric wet with the tip. I palmed it from top to bottom, traced the line of the glans through the lace, squeezed the balls underneath, and she closed her eyes and purred, her breath ragged.

—Look what you’re doing to me, bastard —she panted—. Just as horny as you are, look at me. Take it out for me, please. Take it out and touch it like you want me to touch yours.

I pushed the lace of her panties aside and freed her cock with one tug. It dropped heavy and warm against my palm, thick, hard, the head already beaded with pre-cum. I started stroking her slowly, at the same rhythm she used on me, and like that, each holding the other by the cock, we kept kissing with our mouths wide open, tongues out, breathing in ragged bursts, our spit mixing together. I ran my thumb over the glans, spread the slick all over the crown, and kept sliding her skin up and down while she answered every gesture with the precision of someone who has handled many cocks before.

—I like most games —she continued, gasping between kisses, never stopping jerking me off—. The more forbidden, the better. Pulling my hair, calling me a whore in my ear while you ram it into me, spitting on it before you fuck my throat, prying my ass open with your thumbs and filling it with saliva before you shove it in up to the balls.

—What a slut —I said, breathing hard, squeezing her cock in my fist and watching her eyes cloud over.

—You can be sure of that —Selene replied, and then she pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes, my cock still protruding between her fingers and hers between mine, as if she wanted to see whether I could handle the next level—. But there’s more. I’m telling you now because I’m not the kind of woman who hides what she is. I’ve got tastes that scare a lot of people. Dirty fetishes, filthy ones, the kind you don’t talk about on the first date. Things that make almost everyone sick to their stomach and turn my fake cunt on and get my cock hard as a stick, look if you don’t believe me.

And she tightened her fingers around her cock, so I could feel how hard it was throbbing in my hand.

She said it slowly, watching my face, waiting once again for the blow, the look of rejection she must have seen so many times before. I held her gaze. I let the silence stretch a second too long, just to see her hold her breath with that cock stiff between my fingers.

—Well, what a coincidence —I said at last, bringing my mouth to hers and not letting go of her cock—. I’ve been looking for a pervert like you for a long time, one with no limits and no shame, a filthy bitch with two holes and a cock ready for anything. And I think I’ve finally found her.

Selene’s eyes flew wide, and what I saw in them wasn’t relief: it was hunger. The same hunger I felt. She grabbed my shirt, pulled me toward the hallway and, as we stumbled toward the bedroom, with our flies open, our cocks out, lipstick smudged and our hands under each other’s clothes, I knew that night was only just beginning.

(To be continued)