What I Hid Under My Suit for My Interview

I was always discreet about my tastes. The kind nobody suspects. Thirty-six years old, slim build, brown skin, and under the navy-blue linen suit I put on that morning I was wearing the prettiest lace panties in my entire collection.

My name is Marcos. When I’m alone, when I dress for myself, I’m called Valeria.

I’m a closet cross-dresser. My partner has known for years. She accepted it more calmly than I expected, though she set one condition: that part of me had to stay far away from our bed and our apartment. So Valeria lives in a locked drawer, inside a suitcase I keep in the closet of the guest room. Forty-eight pieces of lingerie, twelve bras, three skirts, and a black strappy dress I’ve never actually worn.

I started as a teenager, like almost everyone. First my cousins’ clothes, then my girlfriends’, then my own, bought online with patience and good taste. I know exactly which fabrics suit me, which cuts flatter me, which colors work with my skin tone when I look at myself in the full-length mirror hidden behind the bathroom door.

It was Tuesday when Consultoría Orinoco called me, a mid-sized but well-positioned financial firm. I’d been looking for work for two months after my previous company reorganized its entire project area and cut me loose with a decent severance package. The free time wasn’t bad for me. It gave me room to look calmly and to take care of other needs.

They scheduled me for ten in the morning. The night before I took the suit out of its garment bag, pressed the shirt, and chose the tie. Everything perfect. Everything professional. But at six in the morning, while I was showering, I shaved my legs and thought: why not?

It wasn’t the first time I’d gone to an interview wearing women’s lingerie underneath. There was something about that feeling, about the secret glued to my skin, that gave me a strange kind of confidence. Like I had an invisible shield. I checked the drawer and took out a dark wine-colored bikini brief, soft fabric with a small bow at the waistband. Discreet. Comfortable. Entirely mine.

I put it on, dressed over it, and left.

***

The Consultoría Orinoco office was on the twelfth floor of a glass building in the financial district. The receptionist told me to wait, and ten minutes later the head of human resources appeared.

Her name was Lucía. I guessed she was around sixty, though she moved like she was forty. She wore a fitted pearl-gray skirt suit, her white hair perfectly styled, and pearl earrings that gave her the air of a Swiss bank director. She held out her hand firmly.

—Marcos, you’re right on time. Follow me, please.

The interview was smooth. Lucía knew what she was looking for and asked about it directly: project management, experience with institutional clients, availability to travel. I answered with the same clarity. After forty minutes I felt things were going well.

Then came the moment I didn’t expect.

—We have an internal policy —Lucía said, closing her folder—. Before we present your candidacy to the CEO, we need a basic medical exam and a drug test. It’s standard for all coordination positions.

Standard. Of course. Perfectly standard.

I nodded as if I didn’t feel panic rising up my throat.

—We’ll go to the infirmary —she said, already standing.

As I followed her down the hallway, my mind ran on its own. Medical exam meant undressing. Undressing meant someone was going to see the wine-colored panties with the bow at the waistband. I thought about making up any excuse: that I hadn’t had water and couldn’t provide the sample, that my stomach hurt, that I’d forgotten my ID. But everything sounded absurd even inside my own head.

The infirmary was a small room smelling of alcohol and cold light. A desk, a cot covered in paper, a beige fabric screen in the corner, and a shelf full of bottles and forms.

—The nurse asked for the day off —Lucía said, opening a drawer as if it were nothing—. I do the checks when she’s away. It’s not complicated.

She filled out a form with my details. Handed me a sample container. Then pointed to the screen.

—You can go behind it. Take off your outer clothes and stay in your underwear. Then let me know.

I went behind the screen. Took off my jacket and hung it on the hook on the wall, untied my tie, folded it carefully. I unbuttoned my shirt button by button. I did everything slowly, as if the time it took me to undress could change what was about to happen.

When I got to the belt, I stopped.

I could keep my pants on and say I wasn’t taking them off. I could invent something.

But something in me didn’t want to pretend. It was a feeling I recognized because I’d felt it before: that heat in the chest that comes when the secret is about to come out. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was anticipation.

I pulled down my pants. Folded them and placed them on the chair next to the jacket. I was left in my wine-colored bikini panties, shaved legs, flat stomach, and I drew a deep breath before stepping out from behind the screen.

Lucía lifted her eyes from the form.

She said nothing for two or three seconds. She looked at me without blinking, with that expression people get when they’re processing something they didn’t expect. Then, with the same calm she’d used throughout the interview, she looked back down at the paper.

—Turn around, please. I’m checking for tattoos on your back.

I turned around.

—Tattoos?

—No.

—Good. —She made a mark on the form—. Any surgical scars?

—None.

—Perfect.

She wrote down something else. There was a silence that wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t neutral either.

—Marcos —Lucía said, without looking up—. In this company we don’t judge anyone’s personal tastes.

She said it in the same tone she’d used to ask about my experience with institutional clients. No emphasis. No mockery. Not a single misplaced inflection.

—I appreciate that —I replied.

—Your profile is exactly what we’re looking for. All that’s left is the CEO giving you the green light. I sent him your information this morning and he confirmed he could see you today.

—Today?

—In a few minutes. —She set the pen down—. Can you wait?

I still hadn’t gotten dressed. I was standing in women’s underwear in the infirmary of a company where I had just had the best job interview of the last two years. And the woman in front of me was acting like it was the most normal thing in the world.

—Yes —I said—. I can wait.

***

The CEO was named Roberto. He walked in without knocking two minutes later, with the assured stride of someone who doesn’t bother asking permission. Early fifties, short, stocky build, impeccable dark suit, gray hair cut very short. He had an expression that revealed nothing.

He looked me up and down without bothering to hide it.

His eyes stopped on my panties. They lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary.

—Marcos —he said, extending his hand—. Roberto Castaño. Nice to meet you.

I shook his hand. He didn’t let go right away.

—The pleasure is mine.

—Lucía told me very good things about you. —His eyes flicked briefly downward again—. I can see you’re a man of particular tastes.

—They belong to my partner —I replied reflexively.

Roberto smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled since walking in.

—Of course. —He paused—. How long have you been wearing them?

I knew he didn’t believe me. And I knew he knew I knew.

—Long enough to know which ones fit me well —I said.

Something changed in his face. A tension that wasn’t discomfort but the opposite.

—You’re right —he said—. They suit you.

He came a step closer. Lucía gathered her papers in silence, said, “I’ll leave you to talk,” and stepped out, closing the door softly.

Roberto stayed less than a meter from me. He looked down at my panties without bothering to hide it this time, without the screen of formality. The wine-colored lace clung to my shaved pubis, and my cock, still soft, was starting to swell against the bow at the waistband.

—How much does it grow? —he asked.

The question caught me off guard, though it shouldn’t have.

—When it’s awake, quite a bit more.

—Will you let me see it?

There was no threat in his voice. No pressure. It was a direct question, delivered with the same calm with which he might have asked about my availability to travel. And that calm, paradoxically, was what made me answer yes.

I slipped my fingers under the lace elastic and pulled my cock out without taking the panties off, moving the fabric just enough so the shaft hung outside, still half-hard, with the glans shining under the infirmary’s cold light. Roberto looked at it for a full moment, unhurried, like someone evaluating a piece he’s about to buy. Then he reached out and took hold of it.

His fingers were thick and sure. He closed them around the shaft with firm pressure, without clumsiness, and started moving slowly from base to glans, sliding the skin with the exact technique only years of doing it to oneself teach. He drew a drop of precum almost immediately. He smeared it over the tip with his thumb and used that moisture to move his hand more smoothly.

—Look at how he’s getting hard —he murmured, almost to himself—. He’s already fat.

I hardened quickly in his fist. It was the first time a man had touched me like that and the sensation was different from what I’d imagined: more direct, less ceremonial, as if he knew exactly which button to press at every moment. He squeezed the base firmly and then ran his palm up to the crown, twisting his wrist on the final stretch. I felt my legs tighten. A gasp escaped through my nose.

—That’s it, breathe —he said—. Now I’m going to suck it.

Roberto knelt down in front of me without ceremony. He dropped to his knees on the cold tiles, gripped my hips with both hands, and without transition took my cock all the way into his mouth. He didn’t taste the head first or toy with the tip: he swallowed it in one go, all the way to the root, and I felt the back of his throat clamp around the glans.

I braced one hand on the edge of the cot to keep from losing my balance. The paper crinkled under my fingers.

He started slowly. He pulled my cock back out to the tip, left a strand of saliva hanging between his lips and the crown, and then sank it back in whole with a long, deep suction. Every time he reached the back, he tightened his throat, and that contraction squeezed my glans in a way that forced me to bite my lip so I wouldn’t moan too loudly. We were in an office infirmary. On the other side of the door, Lucía was listening. And that detail, instead of stopping me, had me hard as a rock.

Roberto started speeding up. He sucked hungrily, bobbing his head up and down at a steady pace, cheeks hollowed by the suction. A strand of saliva ran down his chin. When he pulled my cock completely out of his mouth, he held it by the base and licked my balls, one first, then the other, then both together, taking them into his mouth like he needed them.

—You’ve got such a delicious cock —he murmured, going back up to the tip—. So hard. So hot.

He swallowed it again. This time with both hands on my ass, pulling me forward so I’d fuck his mouth. I took his nape with my free hand, not forcefully, just resting there, and he took that as permission. He started moving my hips himself, setting the rhythm, burying my cock to the balls over and over.

Several minutes passed like that. I looked down and saw the CEO of a financial firm, tie still knotted, kneeling on the infirmary floor and swallowing my cock like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. The sight had me on the verge of coming. I had to grip his shoulder to make him stop.

When he finally lifted his head, my cock was fully erect, slick with saliva, veins standing out, the glans purple. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

—Wait —he said—. Not yet.

Roberto stood up. He loosened his tie, took off his jacket with quick, precise movements, and when he started unbuttoning his shirt I understood this wasn’t over.

Under the dark CEO suit, Roberto was wearing an ivory lingerie set: a thong with fine lace at the waistband and a matching bra, completely sheer. His nipples stood hard through the fabric, and his own cock, small and fully erect, strained beneath the thong, outlining the exact shape of the swollen head against the lace.

He came closer and kissed me. It was a hard kiss, without preamble, with tongue from the very first second. I tasted my own cock in his mouth, a salty, thick flavor that made my insides lurch. While he kissed me, he slipped a hand inside my panties and grabbed my ass hard, pulling my cheeks apart, squeezing them.

—I suppose by now you know we understand certain things here —he said when he pulled back.

I didn’t answer. It wasn’t necessary.

Roberto walked over to the cot and lay face down, resting his head on crossed arms. With both hands he pulled his thong to one side, slowly, exposing his ass. His cheeks were shaved, and his anus came into view, pink, already a little shiny as if he had prepared himself before coming into the office.

—Gently at first —he said in a low voice—. Then put it all the way in.

In the inside pocket of my jacket, still folded on the chair, I had a condom. I couldn’t say why I’d brought it that morning. Maybe because Valeria always does.

I took it out, tore the wrapper with my teeth, and rolled it onto my cock, still dripping from the blowjob. I moved to the cot. Roberto had his legs slightly apart and his ass lifted just enough, offered, with the ivory lace thong shoved aside and marking the crease.

I brought two fingers to my mouth, wet them well, and ran them over his entrance, drawing slow circles around the ring. He let out a long sigh and relaxed his hips. I slid in my index finger first, to the knuckle. No resistance. The second. None either. Roberto had a trained ass, an ass that had been receiving for years, and it showed in every millimeter of how it opened around my fingers.

—Put it in already —he murmured into his forearm—. Come on.

I got behind him. Held one cheek apart with my left hand, and with my right I guided my cock until the head fit into his hole. I pushed slowly. The crown went in with a tiny pop I felt more than heard, and the rest sank in after it with viscous slowness, millimeter by millimeter, until my groin brushed his ass cheeks and my balls pressed against his perineum.

Roberto moaned. A low moan, tight, held in his throat. A moan of having received exactly what he’d been waiting for.

—Like that —he said—. Now fuck me.

I stayed still for a second, feeling how his ass held my entire cock in a tight pulse around me. Then I started. I pulled out almost to the tip and sank back in to the hilt, with a firm thrust that made his fingers open against the cot paper. Again. Again. With each stroke the paper crumpled more and he let out a small “uh” into his forearm.

I sped up. I grabbed both hips and started really fucking him, with long, rhythmic thrusts, pulling my cock almost all the way out and shoving it back in to the hilt. The sound of my groin slapping against his ass started filling the infirmary, a wet, steady smack that blended with our heavy breathing.

—Harder —he said—. Put it in to the balls.

I obeyed. I rammed my cock all the way in, driving with my whole hip, again and again, and he started pushing his ass back to meet me halfway. He set the depth himself. He asked for more with every movement.

With his free hand, Roberto was jerking himself off underneath. I could feel the rhythmic motion of his arm while I penetrated him, the friction of his fist against the ivory lingerie, and that image—that man in a suit now wearing lace lingerie under me while I wore wine-colored bikini panties, fucking him in the infirmary of his own company—was so improbable and so real at the same time that something in me sped up in a way I couldn’t name.

—You’re going to make me come —he panted—. Keep going. Don’t stop.

I didn’t stop. I gripped his shoulder with one hand, his ass with the other, and drove my cock into him faster, deeper, feeling his hole strangle my shaft with every thrust. Roberto began trembling. His arm moved faster underneath. He let out a longer, sharper moan, and I felt his whole sphincter clench around me, squeezing my cock like a fist.

He came over the lingerie, onto the cot paper, in a shudder that ran through his entire back. The spasms of his ass around my cock were too much. I drove in one last time, with everything I had, burying myself to the hilt, and came inside the condom with a tight grunt that made me bite the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t shout. I felt my cock pulsing against his walls, shooting load after load, while his ass kept squeezing me, milking every drop out of me.

We stayed still for several seconds. Him face down, cheek against his forearm, breathing ragged. Me standing behind him, cock still buried in him, feeling the condom slowly cool inside his ass.

I pulled out slowly. My cock slipped free with a small wet sound, and Roberto’s hole stayed open for an instant before closing again, shiny and reddened. I took off the condom, tied it off, and tossed it into the metal bin beside the cot.

***

Roberto sat up, adjusted his thong over his ass still marked by my fingers, picked up his shirt from the floor, and began dressing with the same efficiency he’d undressed with. When he was fully presentable again, tie straightened and jacket back in place, he turned to me.

—The job is yours —he said—. Lucía has the contract ready for you.

And then, almost as an afterthought:

—One thing. It’s not in the contract, but it’s a condition. Every day you come to work here, I want you wearing something of your own. Not something from your partner.

He smiled a second time. Then left without another word.

Lucía was waiting for me in her office with a beige folder on the desk. She handed it to me without comment, except for one line at the end, when I was already at the door with the contract under my arm.

—Welcome to the team, Marcos. —She paused briefly—. Or whatever you prefer we call you.

I rode the twelve floors down alone in the elevator, my heart still racing, Roberto’s ass still in my fingers’ memory, and the wine-colored panties under my linen trousers, wet inside.

That night I opened the suitcase in the closet and took out the black strappy dress I had never gotten around to wearing.

It was time to try it on.