Tranny at Rush Hour: What No One Was Meant to See

Back then I worked in the Microcentro, in one of those glass towers where everyone dresses the same: dark suit, tie, sour face, and a blank stare at the monitors. My days started before it was fully light and ended when the city was already dark. The daily commute was always the same: subway from Constitución to Carlos Pellegrini, transfer, then the line that dropped me two blocks from the office.

What I enjoyed most wasn’t the job. It was the subway ride home.

I’d been making that trip for months dressed as a man, blending into the crowd, rubbing up against strangers in the packed cars at rush hour. But I always chose the last car. Those of us who live in that city know that space has its own rules: nobody looks each other in the eye, but hands come and go. Someone pulls out their cock, someone touches it. Someone lets two fingers get shoved into them over their pants without blinking. Everything in silence, everything fast, with your breath cut short and cum staining the lining of your pocket, as if nothing had happened.

What I wanted was different. I wanted to make that trip dressed as a woman. I wanted them to touch me knowing it was me, to get their hand under my skirt, to fuck me against the wall of the car if it came to that.

Not as some abstract fantasy you keep for the shower with your dick in your hand. As something real. As something I was actually going to do.

***

The question was how. I went to work as a man; I couldn’t show up at the office any other way. I needed somewhere to change, put on makeup, transform myself. And I needed nobody who knew me to see me come out dressed like that from an office building.

I spent an entire week thinking about it. The clothes, the route, the exact day. Every morning on the subway, packed tight against strangers, I went over the details while I felt some stranger’s cock searching for my ass over my pants. Where could I change? What if someone recognized me? How far was I willing to go if things got interesting? Was I going to let someone put it in right there, among strangers? Was I going to suck it if someone asked me to? The questions followed me to my desk, kept me company in the eleven o’clock meeting, waited for me at lunchtime with my fly already straining under my office pants.

I decided it would be on a Friday payday, when the subway is bursting with passengers and nobody can turn around without brushing against someone.

I had the outfit clear from the start. A miniskirt tight to mid-thigh, plaid in black, white, and gray, Colombian cut to accentuate the hips. A semi-sheer white blouse, executive but not quite. A black bra visible beneath the fabric without shouting it, with its padding in each cup. Black garter belt up to the groin, dark burgundy panties, one of those with lace in back that leave half your ass bare. Low-heeled ankle boots.

For changing, I chose a motel near the station. Discreet, no questions, hourly rooms. The kind of place where nobody remembers your face when you leave.

***

Friday came. I walked my coworkers to the building exit, made up an excuse that a friend was waiting for me, and peeled away before they could ask anything. I walked four blocks to the hotel, asked for a room, went upstairs, and closed the door behind me.

Then I sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed still for a moment.

The nerves were physical, not just mental. My hands were shaking. I lit a cigarette. Then another. I think I smoked four or five before deciding to move a single muscle.

I put on my makeup slowly in the bathroom mirror: foundation, concealer, shadow on my eyelids, fine eyeliner. Nothing over the top, nothing carnival-like. The kind of makeup that from far away goes unnoticed but up close changes everything. I put on the bra with its padding, the blouse over it, the tight skirt. I tied on the boots.

I stood there looking at myself for a good while.

I wasn’t perfect. But I was real. I was me. With the burgundy panties tight against me, I could feel my cock pressed against the fabric, hidden between my closed legs. Nobody who touched me from below would expect that. And that thought made me even hotter.

I grabbed my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and stepped out into the hall.

***

The first second outside the hotel was strange in a way I hadn’t expected. The air felt different against my legs. The miniskirt let a breeze through that I’d never felt on that route, and something about that sensation — so concrete, so physical — loosened my muscles and calmed my nerves more than any cigarette.

Two guys looked at me as I crossed the street. One said something I didn’t quite catch, but I saw his hand going to his crotch without even trying to hide it. I kept walking without stopping, the heel marking out the rhythm on the sidewalk.

More of a woman than I had ever felt in my life.

I went into the subway, passed the turnstiles, and went down to the platform. I went straight to the back, where the last car would be. I stayed in the farthest corner from the door, leaning against the side wall, backpack held in my arms and eyes forward.

The train arrived already full. By the next station there was no space left between bodies.

***

At the third station, a lot of people got on and few got off. The car creaked under all that weight. I pressed my backpack to my chest, trying to keep my balance between shoves and sudden braking.

Behind me there were two men who’d been busy with each other for a while. One had his hand inside the other’s pants, moving it slowly, elbow tucked tight to his side so it wouldn’t be obvious. I noticed without looking: you can feel it in the rhythm of the bodies, in how the movements adjust so they’re not obvious, in the smell of aroused male sweat mixing with the car’s sweat. At first neither of them paid me any attention. I was background noise.

At the next station there was a big rush of passengers. People getting off, people getting on, bodies rearranging themselves out of necessity. When the car filled back in, I felt something different. A hand on my left thigh. Gentle, unhurried, as if it had all the time in the world.

It wasn’t either of the two behind me.

I took a moment before looking at him. Dark suit, tie slightly loosened, around forty, brown-skinned, broad face. He held my gaze for an instant and looked away, as if nothing had happened. The hand, however, didn’t leave.

It slid slowly up my thigh. It found the garter elastic with the tip of his finger, hooked it for a second, let it go. It reached the edge of my skirt, brushed it, kept going. He squeezed my ass with his whole palm like he knew exactly what he was touching, then slid his thumb into the crack of my ass over my panties, pressing the lace against my hole. I felt myself take a half-step back without thinking, offering him my ass, and that was signal enough. He moved behind me.

Through the dress pants, it was perfectly obvious: hard, thick, not even trying to hide. He pressed it against my left cheek and started to move just a little, setting the pace, grinding his dressed-up cock between my ass cheeks as if he were already fucking me.

***

I lowered my left hand and touched him over the fabric. He was well endowed. Not absurdly so, but enough to feel clearly: firm, hot, the glans outlined against the cloth and a damp stain already soaking the pants at the tip. I wrapped my hand around the whole thing, from the base to the head, and heard him suck in his breath sharply against my neck.

He used that gesture to slip his hand under my skirt. He lifted it slowly, careful that nobody outside could see too much, and spent a few seconds groping me over my panties, feeling what was down there. When he felt the hard bulge pressed against the burgundy fabric, his hand froze for a second. Just a second. Then he squeezed, understood, smiled against my shoulder, and kept going. He liked it. He liked it even more.

With my right hand I tried to pull my skirt down in front. The man standing in front of me — who had been looking toward the door the whole time — lowered his gaze at that moment. His eyes went to the garter belt, the lace, the concealed bulge underneath. He lowered his hand too. He took it away from me. I couldn’t tell if it was solidarity or because he wanted to be part of something else. What I do know is that I ended up with my skirt bunched up at my waist like an improvised belt, completely exposed, with the black garter belt crossing my thighs and the burgundy panties stretched tight over my throbbing cock.

The heat inside the car was suffocating. The heat of my own body too. I could feel my own leak dripping inside the panties before anyone had even touched me there.

I opened the suit guy’s zipper. He helped himself out, reaching inside his briefs and pulling it out in one quick yank. It was exactly what I had sensed: thick, firm, with heavy veins running up the shaft, the glans purple and a thick drop hanging from the slit. I rested it in my palm and started stroking him slowly, pressing the foreskin against the crown on every downward motion, feeling him thicken in my hand.

I did the same to the man in front. He turned a little to face me more directly, looked at me for a second, and took himself out. He was longer, slimmer, very hard, with his scrotum pulled tight upward. I took him with my other hand and worked both at once, my wrists moving differently, while I felt the hot breath of the man behind me sliding down my neck.

The two men at my sides noticed what was happening. One moved close enough to slip his hand under my blouse and grab my padded breast with his whole palm, squeezing as if they were really female tits. The other pressed up against my side and drove his dressed-up cock into my hip. There was something humiliating about it. But not enough for me to care. I had two dicks in my hands, my skirt hiked up, an unknown finger searching for my hole over the lace of my panties, and a nameless mouth sucking my earlobe. I didn’t need anything else.

***

Not two stations had passed before the man in the suit started playing with the lace of my panties from behind. Very slowly. He ran a finger along the crack of my ass, over the fabric at first, barely dipping it against my hole, making circles. So slowly that at first I didn’t register it as a clear intention. When I realized it, he was already tugging my panties to one side and had the saliva-wet tip of his finger pressed right against my anus, pushing.

I let go of the man in front. I reached into my backpack and took out a condom.

The suit guy looked at me when I stopped stroking him. When he saw what I had in my palm, he mouthed two words in silence. Just two. I didn’t hear them, but I understood them perfectly. “Beautiful whore,” he told me without a sound.

I handed it to him. He opened it without hurry, without nerves, with his teeth. He put it on himself, sliding it down to the base with two fingers, and came back to my ass. I felt his fingers again in back, now wet with his own saliva and who knew what else, preparing me carefully: first one, then two, opening me slowly, turning inside. The ring gave way with a brief burn and then an enormous need for more. When he pulled his fingers out I was empty for just a second, and then I felt the thick glans pushing there, looking for the hole, forcing the entrance.

The subway moved, and with every brake, with every curve in the tracks, he took advantage of the motion to get a little further in. The first brake shoved the whole glans in with one thrust and I had to bite my lip not to cry out. The second drove him halfway in. The third was the decisive pull: he shoved himself to the base and I felt his balls press against my crotch, hot, heavy.

Now he was fucking me. For real. Pushing into my ass with every brake, pulling back only a little when the train sped up, then sinking his whole cock into me again with the next curve. He’d brought my hand to the front and was squeezing my cock through the panties, jerking me off to the rhythm of the thrusts, his palm filling with my own wetness.

I swallowed my whimpers by pressing my lips together. Nobody needed to hear them. The guy in front had put his dick back in my hand and I was stroking him on autopilot, eyes half-lidded, while the man behind me split my ass station after station.

I didn’t even know what station we were at. I had stopped caring several minutes earlier. There was something powerful about that, about letting go of the map, about losing track of where you were while your body was going somewhere else entirely.

I was getting my ass fucked. I had a hard dick in my hand. There were people groping my tits, sucking my neck, squeezing my cock over my panties. It was exactly what I had planned for an entire week, and it was better than I had imagined. Much better.

***

I felt him finish in the middle of the tunnel, between stations, with the noise of the rails covering any sound that might have slipped out of me. He went rigid behind me, dug his nails into my hip, and unloaded inside with three short, deep thrusts, his cock throbbing against the walls of my ass as he emptied himself into the latex. I came almost at the same time, in the stranger’s hand that was working me in front, soaking his palm and the lining of my burgundy panties with hot milk. I had to bite my own shoulder through the blouse to keep from moaning out loud.

The guy in front didn’t finish. He tucked his cock back into his pants with a frustrated look when the train started braking.

I put myself back together quickly. The suit guy withdrew, pulling out carefully, and I felt my hole stay open for an instant, pulsing, before closing. I adjusted my panties, pulled my skirt down, breathed. I asked the man who still had a hand on my hip in a low voice which station we were at. He told me the name.

We had reached the end of the line without me realizing it.

The doors closed before I got off. The car started moving back into the tunnel. The lights went out. The driver announced over the loudspeaker: technical stop, about ten minutes out of service.

The man in the suit leaned toward my ear.

“Didn’t you have another one left?” he asked very softly.

***

Better safe than sorry. And condoms come in packs of three.

With fewer people in the car and the darkness in between, it was easier. He had me put my palms against the side wall, yanked my skirt up to my waist, and pulled my panties down in one tug to mid-thigh. He spread my ass cheeks with both hands and stayed looking at my ass for a few seconds, still open, still shining with saliva and lube, before tearing open the second condom with his teeth and putting it on again.

He went in straight away. No fingers, no buildup, nothing. My ass was already worked open and he entered in one go, balls-deep, with a dry shove that knocked the air out of me. After that there was no more care. He grabbed my hips with both hands, set his feet behind mine, and started fucking me for real, giving fast, deep thrusts, his balls hitting my perineum with every drive down, his heavy breathing against my neck.

“Whore,” he said in my ear, now low but clear. “Hot little whore, what a great ass you’ve got.”

A moan slipped out of me, and I muffled it against my forearm. I pushed my ass back at him to take his cock all the way in with each thrust. In five minutes he was done too, pinning me against the wall with all his weight, unloading for a second time inside the condom with a short growl I felt rise from his chest. When the train started moving again I was already fixing my clothes, my ass throbbing and my legs weak.

I took a taxi from the terminal station. It was expensive, but I didn’t feel like any more subway that night.

In the back seat I noticed something odd. A viscous, slippery feeling in places that didn’t belong. I started calculating, remembering. The rush at the end, the darkness, the second time, the way he’d pulled it out in one yank. I didn’t remember checking anything.

The worry came slowly, but it came.

When I got home I went straight to the bathroom. I undressed, looked at myself in the mirror for a second — makeup smeared, bra twisted, panties stained — grabbed toilet paper, and started wiping myself.

I felt something offering resistance. Something that could be pulled.

It was the condom. Rolled up, stuck way inside, but completely intact, with the guy’s load still inside it, untouched.

The calm came back all at once.

I sat on the edge of the tub, alone in the bathroom, with my ass open and the latex in my hand, and laughed for a good long while.

Thanks for reading.