The Transvestite Who Stopped Hiding

Three months later, Bianca no longer had a single loose-fitting garment in the closet. She had thrown them all away, one by one, that very afternoon when she understood she no longer needed to hide anything about her body. What she used to conceal under baggy fabrics she now showed without asking permission.

The black dress from that night hung from the bedroom door like a trophy. The back was still stained with lubricant and dried semen, and she refused to wash it. Every time she looked at it she felt the same tingle between her legs, the exact memory of the moment when she stopped being an idea and became something real: two cocks at once, one in her cunt and another in her ass, while she came screaming over the hood of someone else’s car.

The unfiltered photo had changed everything. Three hundred and forty thousand new people followed her in a single week, subscriptions skyrocketed to a point she couldn’t manage on her own, and she had to hire a friend to answer the avalanche of messages. The money started coming in so fast that she stopped counting it.

But the important thing had never been the money.

***

She moved to a high floor in Nueva Córdoba, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the entire city. Every morning she woke with the sun hitting her naked tits, spread her legs in front of the full-length mirror, and looked at her swollen pussy, still shining from the previous night’s orgasm. She slid two fingers inside, pulled them out sticky, and licked them slowly, tasting herself. She no longer hunted for the impossible angle. There was no app correcting anything anymore. It was just her, exactly as she was, and she liked it.

She streamed live almost every day. She did her makeup in front of the camera while chatting with thousands of strangers, slipped crystal plugs into her ass with the calm of someone making coffee, and slowly stretched herself open while reading aloud the dirtiest comments they wrote to her. "Open wider, slut," "suck your tits for us," "put both fingers all the way up your ass." She obeyed with a smile, pinched her nipples until they went hard, spread the lips of her pussy with two fingers so the camera could see deep inside, pink and wet. Sometimes she came just from words alone, without touching herself, with her clit throbbing against the fabric of her soaked panties, and then she laughed. A real laugh, not the tense grimace from before.

This is me. This is what I always was, even if it took half a lifetime to dare.

In the first few days, when she was still counting the followers one by one, she struggled to believe that so many eyes wanted to see her, precisely her, the same woman who years ago would cross the street to avoid catching sight of her reflection in shop windows. Now she asked to be watched. She turned on the ring light, adjusted the camera, and offered herself whole—pussy open, ass lifted, mouth slack—and every heart floating up the screen was a small revenge against all the mirrors that had ever hurt her.

Maximiliano kept showing up. Not every week, but often enough to become more than just another subscriber among thousands. He arrived unannounced, knocked on the door at any hour, and always found her ready: no panties under the short robe, pussy already shaved, ass with the plug in just in case. As soon as he got inside he grabbed her by the hair and dropped her to her knees in the entryway, yanked his hard cock out and shoved it down her throat without asking.

—Suck, slut —he growled, holding her head with both hands—. Make yourself drool, make your mascara run, that’s how I want you.

She sucked him with hunger, looking up at him from below, letting saliva drip down her chin and onto her tits. She squeezed his balls with one hand while the other rubbed her clit. When he pulled his cock out of her mouth, it was only to slap her face with it and shove it back in, deeper, until he made her choke.

Then he lifted her in his arms, carried her to the window, and pressed her against the glass. He tore off her robe, pried her ass open with his thumbs, and yanked the plug out in a motion that made her moan. He spat into the opened hole, slicked the tip, and pushed into her in one single thrust, all the way to the balls. Bianca shrieked, cheek pressed to the cold pane, tits flattened against the glass leaving sweat marks, while the whole city stretched out eight floors below.

—Look carefully —he told her in her ear, pulling her hair back to force her not to close her eyes in front of the window—. Let the whole neighborhood see them fuck you in the ass. Let them see how well you take it.

He fucked her without mercy, slamming his hips into her ass with a wet and dry sound at the same time, until his fingers left bruises on her waist. When he felt she was close, he slid a hand between her legs and shoved three fingers into her cunt, all while still taking her from behind. Bianca came screaming, clenching him with both holes at once, and he kept fucking her for a while longer before pulling out, turning her around, and cumming in her open mouth, on her outstretched tongue, on her lifted tits. She swallowed what she could and spread the rest over her nipples with her palms, looking him in the eye.

He left stacks of bills on the bedside table and never stayed to sleep. She never asked him to. It was perfect that way: desire without promises, without the trap of pretending it was anything else.

***

She met other girls like her. First on screens, then in the flesh. Dinners on trendy terraces, group photo shoots where they licked their pussies while laughing as flashes burst around them, weekend getaways to Mar del Plata paid for by a producer who wanted them all together for his label. In one of those shoots she ended up with her face buried between the legs of a very tall blonde, licking her swollen clit while another one opened her ass from behind and ran her tongue from her asshole to her cunt in long, slow laps. The blonde came screaming into her mouth, and Bianca swallowed everything without pulling away, with the flashes lighting up her smeared mascara and stained smile.

She learned she was not alone. That there was a silent army of hybrid bodies, beautiful and broken at once, reigning without asking anyone’s permission.

With them she lost the last trace of shame. One taught her how to move for the camera as if she were dancing for herself, how to arch her back so her ass would stand out, how to suck on her fingers as if they were a cock. Another told her how she had cut ties with her family and built a new one with the women who did love her, while she slipped a vibrator between Bianca’s legs and whispered in her ear how pretty she looked when she was about to come. At night they sent each other long voice notes, laughed about the men who treated them like goddesses and the ones who understood nothing, and little by little Bianca stopped feeling like her life was a secret she had to manage.

One of those early mornings, returning from a shoot on the coast, the four of them crammed into the back seat of a van, Bianca rested her head on the shoulder of the one driving and realized she was happy. Not the noisy happiness of cameras, but a quieter one, the kind that comes from belonging somewhere. She had spent her whole life looking for that feeling without knowing what to call it, and she finally found it among women like her.

***

One night they invited her to a private party in the penthouse of a businessman whose name she never learned. They placed her in the center of the room, on a pale rug, naked except for silver heels and a leather collar with a ring in front. Around her, a dozen men, all with their faces covered by smooth masks, all with their cocks already out of their trousers, all waiting.

—Relax —a voice said from behind one of the masks—. Tonight you’re the one in charge, even if it looks the other way around.

And it began. They put her on her knees and brought the first cock to her mouth. Bianca took it in her hand, looked at it for a second, and swallowed it whole to the base, drawing a growl from the masked man. Another one came up to her side and she let go of the first to suck the second, alternating, letting them spit on her face, her tongue, her tits. Four hands were grabbing her hair at the same time, pulling in different directions, and she loved it.

They laid her on her back on the rug, spread her legs wide open, and one man drove into her cunt in a single thrust. At the same time another sat on her chest and shoved his cock into her mouth, choking her with his balls against her nose. The two of them fucked her to each other’s rhythm, glancing over her body as if Bianca were a bridge between their bodies. She moaned through the choke, her throat full and her cunt stretched, feeling the first one cum inside her with a roar and pull out to make room for the next without giving her a second to breathe.

They turned her face-down, lifted her ass with a cushion, and now it was two at once: one in her cunt, another in her ass, synchronized, each pushing when the other withdrew, until she felt as if she were splitting in two. Her tits dragged against the rug with every thrust, nipples burning from the friction. Another man came up in front of her and shoved his cock into her mouth, and for the first time in her life Bianca was full of cocks in all three holes at once, fucked like a toy by three men simultaneously while the rest jerked off around them waiting their turn.

Every time she thought she couldn’t take any more, another pair of hands would turn her and set her in a new position—straddling one, face-down over another, on her side with a cock in each hand and one in her mouth—and she gave herself over with a mix of obedience and power she couldn’t name. She was at the center of everything, the sole reason those men existed that night, and that turned her on more than any caress.

Between thrusts someone would whisper how beautiful she was, someone else would yank the collar so she had to lift her face, and she let herself be carried along like someone surrendering to a warm current. One after another they finished: in her mouth, on her tits, in her ass, on her face, in her hair. Cum streamed from her forehead to her chin, mingled with her saliva, gathered between her tits, and slid down her stomach. There was no fear anywhere in her body. Only the dull pulse of desire, her clit throbbing without pause, and the certainty that the whole night revolved around her, her skin, her will.

They filled her until she lost count of how many times she came. Her makeup was ruined, her thighs trembling and sticky to the knees, her hair matted with semen, her ass red from hands, her cunt and ass open and dripping. When she could no longer even stand, one of the masked men approached, slowly took off his mask, and it was Maximiliano.

He said nothing. He lifted her in his arms as if she weighed nothing, crossed the hallway between the rest of the masked gazes, and carried her to the bathroom. He put her under the warm shower and washed her entire body with a tenderness no one would have expected from him, not even herself. He ran the sponge slowly between her legs, cleaned the dried cum from her chest, and untangled her hair with his fingers.

—You’re unstoppable, you know that? —he murmured while the water carried the night down the drain.

Bianca looked at herself in the fogged-up mirror: swollen lips, bite marks on her breasts, hips still red, nipples burning, and eyes shining like two beacons in the mist. She raised her hand and drew a circle on the glass with her finger, clearing a piece of her own reflection.

And she laughed. A deep, free laugh, the laugh of someone who no longer needs to hide from anything or anyone.

She kept that image forever—the wet hair, the marks, the smile—not in any camera, but in memory. It was proof that she had reached the exact place she wanted to be, and that the path, brutal as it might have looked from the outside, had been chosen by her alone.

***

Today her profile has more than a million subscribers. Almost nobody remembers the name they registered her under at birth anymore, and she thinks that’s perfect: that name belonged to someone who lived half a life, shrunk down, apologizing for existing.

When she walks down the street in short shorts and a fishnet top, people turn their heads and whisper. Some recognize her from the screens, others simply look because they can’t help it. Before, that attention would have made her tremble. Now she wears it like perfume.

Sometimes, some girl still folded into her own baggy fabrics writes to her at night to say that seeing her helped her find the courage. Bianca always replies, even if late, even if it’s only one line. She knows what it means to wait on the other side of a screen for a sign that the life you dream of exists somewhere and can actually be reached.

Maximiliano once half-jokingly suggested they drop everything and disappear together to some beach far from the cameras. She thought about it for only a second before laughing and telling him no. She was not willing to hide again, not even for love, not even in paradise. She had fought too hard to be seen to go back to being anyone’s secret.

She keeps walking, her heels echoing against the hot asphalt of the siesta, her hips swaying with calculated slowness, her gaze forward. She knows what the people looking at her are thinking and she doesn’t care, or rather, she loves it.

I’m no longer an image on a screen. I’m the fantasy made flesh. And the flesh won.

And this is not the end of anything. It’s only just beginning, like everything good that ever happened to her.