The Travesti Who Returned to Town to Settle Every Score

Las Espigas was a provincial town that bragged about two things and only openly flaunted one. The first, the one that appeared on the roadside sign, was being the self-proclaimed Sunflower Capital. The second, the one whispered at every counter, was having given birth to Soledad Miranda, the travesti diva who was triumphing in the capital’s theaters.

That Thursday morning, La Espiga de Oro bakery was the epicenter of the juiciest gossip of the year. The gossips clustered in front of the pastry display, their eyes gleaming with malice.

“She’s back,” one whispered, without needing to say the name.

“Espiguita’s back,” another finished, chewing every syllable. “The one who went off to become famous with her shows. But we all know how she started here: as a lost faggot behind the station, bare-assed and with a cock in his mouth.”

The rumor spread like wildfire, from mouth to mouth, seasoned with giggles and knowing looks. They all knew the secret that was no longer a secret: the diva had been registered at the civil registry as Rosendo Vera, using his mother’s surname, because he’d never had a father.

Tincho was in line, waiting for his dozen croissants, when he heard the nickname. His blood ran cold and, at the same time, his cock stirred of its own accord inside his trousers. The past came crashing down on him like an old roof.

***

Fifteen years earlier, he had been the first. Rosendo was then a thin, delicate kid, already eighteen, with huge eyes and a way of walking that drove the men of the town crazy without their wanting to admit it. Tincho, a farmhand built like a bull, had found him one summer night crossing the square alone, wearing an improvised skirt and his hair tied back in a ponytail.

He remembered that first time as if it had been yesterday. He took him to the abandoned shed behind the train station, where the air smelled of damp earth and rusted iron.

“Come here,” he said, grabbing him by the arm.

The kid trembled, but did not resist. Tincho shoved him against the corrugated-metal wall, lifted his skirt, and yanked down his underwear. He spread his buttocks with both hands, stared at that tight, pale, virgin ass, and felt his mouth water. He spat into his palm, rubbed his hard cock until it gleamed, pressed it against the kid’s closed asshole, and pushed slowly, forcing his way in.

“Take it,” he growled in his ear as the ass opened by jerks. “Take it, this is only the beginning.”

The other boy cried out, his eyes full of tears and his cheek pressed against the cold metal, but he did not ask him to stop. Tincho gripped his hips and thrust all the way in, feeling the little ass squeeze his cock like a hot fist. Once he was buried to the balls, he paused for a second, breathing against the back of his neck, then began to move, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with a hard thrust.

“That’s it, faggot,” he spat. “That’s how someone had to put it in you. Nice and deep. Feel that cunt of yours back there settling around it.”

Every thrust drew out a new squeal. The kid bit the forearm covering his mouth, his knees buckling, but his ass gradually loosened, and little by little he began moving his hips against him, seeking more. Tincho grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and bit his neck while driving his cock deep. When he felt himself coming, he pulled out, turned him around, put him on his knees in the dirt, and shoved his swollen cock into his mouth.

“Suck it, come on. Suck it like you suck the whole town’s cock in your dreams.”

Rosendo opened his mouth and let him fuck his throat until Tincho, with a roar, emptied his entire load between his tongue and teeth. The kid coughed and gagged, and even so kept licking the swollen glans down to the last drop, tears and semen running down his chin.

That night changed everything. Then came many more: in the cornfields, with the kid on all fours between the plants and his skirt pushed up around his waist, while Tincho split his ass and covered his mouth so he would not scream; in the dry riverbed, his face buried in the sand while the farmhand’s cock drove into him to the balls; in the social club bathroom during a harvest festival, locked in the cubicle, Rosendo riding his cock without trousers, biting his hand so they would not be discovered while Tincho made him bounce like a doll on his dick.

Tincho sought him out in the shadows, and the kid always appeared, crying at first and begging for more in the end, betrayed by his own body.

“I don’t know what you did to me,” he confessed once, still breathless, his face against the dirt floor and semen running down his thighs. “I hate you and I still wait for you. I touch myself thinking about your cock every night.”

But Tincho was selfish. After months of using him as he pleased, one night he left him lying in the street the way one leaves a rag, his ass full of cum and his eyes swollen.

“Go find someone else,” he said without looking at him.

And Rosendo, wounded and hooked on the rough sex only he had taught him, opened himself to half the town. Truckers who fucked him in their cabs with the engines running, farmhands who passed him between them in the equipment yard, married men who afterward greeted their wives at Mass with the same hand they had grabbed his hair with while coming on his face. In Las Espigas’ venomous gossip, he became the shame everyone privately enjoyed. Tincho watched him from a distance, with a mixture of jealousy and diseased pride, knowing he had shaped him that way.

***

Fifteen years later, the news hit him like a punch to the bakery counter. Espiguita was back. Now she was Soledad Miranda, a diva with theater shows and television appearances. They said she had changed completely: hormones, surgeries, a new woman’s body made through operating rooms and money, with real breasts and an ass that made heads turn.

Tincho collected the croissants and went out onto the cobbled street. Without thinking, he walked toward old Mrs. Vera’s house, passing through the square where it had all begun. He did not know what he was looking for. Maybe a fight. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe the same thing as always: to shove his cock all the way inside her and remind her who had been first.

He found her that same afternoon. The door was ajar, and he entered without knocking. There she was, sitting in the living room, wearing a tight red dress that emphasized curves the thin boy from before could never have had.

“Tincho,” she said in a calm, husky voice, without surprise. “I knew you were coming.”

He looked her up and down. She’s still the same old slut beneath all that makeup.

“Soledad, or Rosendo. You came back just as much of a slut.”

She laughed, stood, and approached, moving her hips with a calmness that was pure provocation.

“To everyone else I’m Soledad. To you I’ll always be the hole you were the first to open.”

She placed her hand on his chest and slowly lowered it, running it over the bulge already straining against his trousers. She grabbed him through the fabric, gauged the weight of his cock in her palm, and smiled.

“Still just as thick,” she murmured. “And it’s already hard for me.”

Tincho did not resist. He grabbed her by the hair and kissed her violently, biting her lip until she let out a moan, while she opened his belt and pulled his hard cock into the open.

“I’m going to fuck you like before,” he warned against her mouth.

“Try me,” she replied, her eyes locked on his, and let herself drop to her knees on the rug.

She gripped his cock with both hands and took it all into her mouth, without gagging, without preamble, burying it until her nose touched the hair at his pubis. Tincho grunted and grabbed the back of the sofa. The diva sucked his cock with years of experience, licking the glans, letting a strand of saliva fall over his balls and then lowering to lick them one by one. She pulled it from her mouth, slapped him with it across her painted lips, and swallowed it back down to her throat.

“Look at me,” she demanded, his cock an inch from her face. “Look at me sucking you, you son of a bitch. Look at what I learned in these fifteen years.”

She spat on the glans and continued, moving her head quickly, tightening her cheeks, drawing moans from Tincho he had never allowed himself with any woman in town. When she felt he was about to come, she pulled his cock from her mouth and stood.

“No. Not yet. Today you’re going to come where I tell you.”

She shoved him onto the sofa and tore off her dress in one pull. Beneath it was a body he did not recognize and that drove him just as wild: firm breasts with dark, pointed nipples, warm skin, a marked waist, and between her legs the result of years of surgery, a shaved, pink, wet cunt gleaming between her thighs. He spread her legs with one swipe, spat into his hand, rubbed the glans against the lips of that new cunt, and entered with a single thrust, all the way to the hilt.

“Son of a bitch!” she cried, but her nails dug into his back, asking for exactly that.

Tincho pounded her like an animal, feeling that new, unfamiliar cunt squeeze him, smaller and hotter than any he had fucked. Every thrust made her breasts bounce, and he bent down to bite them, sucking her nipples until they were red.

“I missed this cock,” she panted, arching and digging her heels into his ass. “Harder. The way you know how. Break me, Tincho, break the cunt they made for you.”

“Slut,” he spat, thrusting until his balls smacked against her ass. “Fucking slut. You had your cunt operated on so I could fuck it.”

“Yes,” she moaned. “For you. All for you. Keep going, don’t stop, give me more.”

He turned her over, put her on all fours against the back of the sofa, and returned to what had always been his territory. He spread her cheeks with both hands, looked at her tight asshole and the new cunt dripping beneath it, and did not know where to begin. He chose the usual place. He spat on his thumb, buried it in her ass to the knuckle, and then replaced the finger with his cock. He pushed all the way in, and she trembled from head to toe with a moan that was pain and pleasure at once.

“Cry,” he told her, slapping her buttocks with every thrust. “Cry like the first time in the shed. Cry with my cock in your ass like when you were a little faggot.”

And she cried. Tears ran from her eyes and her whole body trembled while he fucked her ass with the same violence as fifteen years before, grabbing her hair, pulling it back, forcing her to look at herself in the living-room mirror: her mouth open, her mascara smeared, her breasts shaking, a thread of drool falling from her lip.

“Look at yourself,” he growled. “Look at how much you like it.”

“I love it,” she panted. “I love your cock in my ass. Nobody ever did it to me like you.”

But this time was different. When he eased off, breathing heavily, she turned around, slipped away from him, shoved him onto his back on the sofa, and climbed on top. She grabbed his dripping cock, straightened it, and sat down slowly, sinking onto him inch by inch, first with her wet cunt, tightening every muscle around his cock until he moaned.

“Now I’m in charge,” she said, planting her hands on his chest and beginning to move up and down with a control she had never possessed before.

She rode him unhurriedly, her neck stretched, her breasts bouncing in front of his face. Every so often she held still with his cock buried entirely inside her and clenched her cunt, squeezing his glans and drawing expressions from Tincho he had never worn in front of anyone.

“Do you like it, daddy? Do you like how your former little faggot grips you?”

“Yes,” he admitted through his teeth. “Yes, slut, keep going.”

“Ask me.”

“Keep going.”

“Ask me properly.”

“Keep going, please. Keep fucking me.”

She laughed, threw her head back, and sped up, bouncing on his cock and dropping her full weight, drawing shameful moans from the farmhand who fifteen years earlier had made her cry in a shed. She dug her long nails into his pecs, bit his lower lip, and kept moving until Tincho, his face red and his jaw clenched, began to tremble beneath her.

“I’m going to come,” he panted.

“Inside,” she ordered, tightening her cunt. “Come inside me. Fill me like you used to.”

Tincho grabbed her hips, drove her down against him, and unloaded everything he had inside the diva’s cunt, while she rubbed her clitoris against the farmhand’s pubis and came on top of him with a long cry, squeezing every drop that came out of him. She remained seated on his cock through the last tremor, biting her lip and savoring every second of her revenge.

They finished exhausted, covered in sweat, the living room in disarray and the makeshift sheets scattered across the floor. A white thread ran down between Soledad’s thighs when she stood. Tincho dressed while looking at her sprawled across the sofa, still breathless, her cunt swollen and her makeup a complete mess.

“You came back for this, didn’t you?” he asked.

She smiled, licking her split lip, and ran two fingers over her dripping cunt before bringing them to her mouth.

“I came back for more. The whole town is going to remember me.”

***

That same afternoon, after Tincho had left behind the smell of sex and sweat, old Mrs. Vera came in from the kitchen carrying a mate tray. Her apron was stained with flour, and her eyes were narrowed, like someone who had heard everything from the hallway. She sat across from her daughter on the still-disordered sofa and prepared the mate without saying anything at first.

Soledad—Rosendo to her—had put on a light robe, but the red marks on her thighs, the damp stain in the fabric, and the faint trembling of her legs gave her away. She took the mate and drank deeply, trying to pull herself together.

“Tincho again?” the old woman asked, dryly and without beating around the bush.

Soledad lowered her gaze for a moment, then raised it. There was no shame in her eyes, only a heated resignation.

“Yes, Mom. It started again today. I couldn’t help it.”

Her mother did not flinch. She prepared another mate and waited.

“I never forgot him,” Soledad continued, her voice lower, almost intimate. “That first time in the shed, when I was a frightened boy and he grabbed me as if I had always belonged to him. It hurt me to the soul. But afterward I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how he made me feel like I was nothing and everything at the same time.”

Old Mrs. Vera set the mate on the little table with a soft thump and folded her arms.

“Of course I know,” she said. “I treated you many times.”

Soledad jerked her head up.

“After that night you came walking back as if you’d been split in two,” her mother continued. “You arrived at dawn, your skirt torn and your ass dripping with semen. You went into the bathroom and cried until you lost your voice. I came in, saw you hurt, cleaned you, put ointment on you, and sat you in a bucket of chamomile so your asshole would go down. And through your sobs, you told me you still wanted him to fuck you again.”

Soledad fell silent, her face burning. Not from embarrassment, but from the exact memory her mother had just returned to her.

“You never said anything to me afterward,” she murmured.

“What would have been the point? You were old enough to know what you wanted. All I cared about was that you didn’t truly hurt yourself, that you didn’t end up broken. The rest was yours. And apparently it still is.”

Soledad leaned forward, her elbows on her knees.

“I don’t know what he has, Mom. Or what I have. But this time it’s different.”

Her mother looked at her with a strange mixture of weariness and understanding.

“Take care of yourself anyway. Not because you’ll seek him out again—you’ve already decided that on your own. But because men like Tincho don’t change. They use you until they get bored, then leave you lying there with cum between your legs. Only now you know how to defend yourself.”

Soledad smiled faintly, a crooked, tired smile.

“I’m not going to let him leave me again. This time I decide when it ends. And it will be on my terms.”

Old Mrs. Vera stood, picked up the tray, and walked toward the kitchen. Before crossing the threshold, she stopped.

“When you’re feeling better, come in. I’ll prepare you a chamomile sitz bath. Just in case.”

Soledad remained alone on the sofa, her legs still trembling and her cunt burning inside, and for a moment she felt like that night in the shed again: frightened, hurt, and completely alive.

***

The town has changed over the years, but not that much. La Espiga de Oro is no longer the epicenter of the whispers; now it is a convenience store with colorful lights and imported candy. Gossip flies by cellphone, in the mothers’ group chat, faster than ever and with the same old spite.

But the center of the rumor remains the same as it was half a century ago. Soledad Miranda, a living legend with her loyal audience, and Tincho, now paunchy and gray-haired but still seeking her out whenever she returns to town, with the same cock that marked her for the first time. Fifty years of brutal encounters, orgasms, tears, revenge, and returns.

Las Espigas considers itself the Sunflower Capital, but everyone knows its true queen is someone else. And although they pretend to be scandalized in the bakery line, not one of them misses the next chapter.

The legend continues. And so do the prejudices.