What the Gym Guy Didn’t Know About Me

There were always two versions of me. The one who went to the gym three times a week, the one who hauled boxes in the warehouse, the one who drank beer with the guys on Fridays. And the other: the one who kept everything I truly was in a black backpack at the back of the closet.

I’m twenty-six. I’ve never considered myself gay in the conventional sense of the word. I’m attracted to men, yes, but what I want isn’t to be with them as a man. Since I was a teenager, my fantasy was to be the woman who drove them crazy, the one who spread her legs and begged them to bury it all the way inside her.

For years I kept it as a secret so well hidden that I didn’t even name it to myself. I dressed alone, practiced makeup in front of the bathroom mirror with the door closed, learned to walk in heels across the parquet without making a sound. And I kept it all, always, for myself.

Until I met Ernesto.

***

I saw him for the first time in the gym locker rooms, one Tuesday afternoon. Fifty-five, at least. Tall, with a torso covered in dark hair that went gray on his chest, a salt-and-pepper beard, big hands. He spoke in a deep voice, the kind that doesn’t need to raise itself for everyone to hear. He caught my attention in a way I couldn’t decipher at the time, or maybe didn’t want to.

Over time we became the kind of people who said hello. Then the kind who talked between sets. Ernesto was a retired engineer, divorced for four years, living alone in an apartment ten minutes from the gym. He was the kind of man who doesn’t pretend: he said what he thought, laughed at his own jokes, and didn’t care if somebody didn’t find them funny.

One Friday, when we were already finishing up our routine, he hurried to change and said with that natural ease of his that sometimes threw me off:

—Tonight I’ve got a date with a slightly special girl.

—Your girlfriend? —I asked, pretending not to care.

—No, nothing like that. I mean she’s special in a different way.

I stared at him. He waited for two guys nearby to head off to the showers and lowered his voice a little.

—She’s a transvestite. You know what that is?

—Of course —I said, calmer than I felt.

—Ever since I separated, I decided to stop putting limits on what I like. And believe me, being with someone like that is something completely different. How they suck cock, how they let you fuck them. They’re an addiction.

He left at a quick pace, still smiling.

I stood there in front of my locker for a full minute without moving, with my cock half-hard inside my shorts.

Now or never.

***

The chance came three weeks later, on a Thursday at noon. A message came through while I was leaving work earlier than usual.

—Hey, I’ve got some documents I don’t understand. Can you take a look this afternoon, before the gym? If you want, I can pick you up and we can go in my car.

I answered yes without thinking twice. Then I sat in my car, closed my eyes for a moment, and opened the glove compartment where I always kept the backpack. Everything was there: the full kit, as always, just in case.

Just in case.

I got to his building, gave my name to the doorman, and went upstairs. Ernesto opened the door in comfortable clothes: gray tracksuit pants, white T-shirt, flip-flops. The bulge under the fabric was obvious and I tried not to stare. The apartment smelled like freshly brewed coffee, and there was a laptop open on the dining table.

We spent half an hour going over his papers. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he said:

—Do you remember what I told you that Friday?

—Yes —I replied.

—Since that day I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing it again. —He paused.— Monday at the gym I couldn’t stop looking at you when you were doing squats. That ass of yours, how it stood out. I don’t know if you noticed.

—I noticed —I admitted.

There was a silence long enough for both of us to understand we were no longer talking about documents. He stood up, went to his room to get something, and came back holding several bills. He set them on the table without saying anything.

—If the idea doesn’t make you uncomfortable... —he said.

I looked at them. Looked at him.

—Give me ten minutes —I told him.

—You’re going to leave —he said, with a skeptical half-smile.

—I’m not going to leave. I just need to go down to the car for a moment.

***

I came back up with the black backpack slung over my shoulder. When I entered the apartment, Ernesto had turned on the TV to something that sounded like an adult film: you could hear a woman moaning loudly and the wet slapping of a blowjob. He nodded toward the hallway with his chin.

—The bathroom is the first door.

I locked myself in. I took everything out with the calm that comes from years of practice: black thigh-high stockings with garters, burgundy satin lingerie, a tiny thong that I arranged by tucking my cock and balls back between my ass cheeks so nothing would show from the front. Short pencil skirt, dark lace blouse, brown wig that fell to my shoulders, and stilettos I already knew how to wear without looking down. I touched up my face with foundation, smoky eyeshadow, and dark red lips, and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror for five seconds.

Sandra was ready.

When I came out into the hallway, the sound of my heels on the parquet stopped Ernesto dead. He had stuck his head out to see why I was taking so long and stayed there, one hand on the doorframe, saying nothing. His cock was already pushing hard beneath his tracksuit pants.

—What do you think? —I asked him, in the softest voice I can make.

—My God —he said slowly—. You’re gorgeous. You’re a beautiful little slut.

—Really? —I stepped closer. The heels echoed in the silence.— This was a secret of my own. I think today it stops being one.

—What’s your name?

—Sandra. Though you can call me whatever you want. Slut, bitch, whatever turns you on.

He smiled in that way of his, calm and unshowy.

—Nice to meet you, Sandra. I’m Ernesto, though from tonight on you can call me whatever you damn well please.

***

I made us something to eat from what I found in his fridge. It was a silly gesture, I knew it, but I needed to do something with my hands while he watched me from the sofa. The sound of heels on the floor, the murmur of the movie in the background, the smell of hot food: everything mixed into something that felt, strangely, intimate.

When I finished, I brought him a drink and sat beside him. He slid a hand up my thigh, found the edge of the stocking, followed it over the garter to the bare skin of my ass. I shivered.

—You’ve been keeping this hidden for a long time —he said. It wasn’t a question.

—Many years.

—And?

—Right here, right now, I feel better than ever.

He pulled me toward him with a hand at the back of my neck and kissed me slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. His beard scraped my lower lip and he opened my mouth with his tongue, going deep, tasting me without rush. His other hand slipped inside my blouse, pinched one nipple between two fingers, and squeezed until I moaned into his mouth. The hand moved down, tracing my back from top to bottom, feeling the lace of the blouse, the edge of the garter under the skirt, and went on to squeeze one cheek hard, spreading the flesh a little until the pad of one finger brushed my asshole over the thong. I felt something that had been tense for years suddenly come loose.

—What do you want tonight? —he asked against my mouth.

—I just want to be yours. I want you to fuck me like a slut.

—Then you’re going to be my slut.

***

He took me to the bedroom without hurrying. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me from there, with that calm he had about everything. He pulled his tracksuit pants down to his knees and fished his cock out through the opening in his boxers: thick, dark, with heavy balls hanging between his thighs and a vein throbbing beneath the skin. I walked toward him slowly, aware of every step, the line of the stockings, the soft creak of parquet under the heels.

I knelt in front of him.

I took his cock in my right hand and brought it first to my lips, barely brushing it, leaving a trace of red on the tip. I licked from the base to the head, slowly, like someone savoring something for the first time after years of waiting. I buried my nose in his balls and breathed in that smell of man, of heat, of something urgent and concrete that made me close my eyes for a second. I took one ball fully into my mouth, then the other, sucking gently while I stroked the shaft with my hand.

—Like that, slut, suck my balls proper —he said, in the hoarsest voice I’d ever heard from him.

When I went back to his cock I took it all the way down. I felt his weight, the temperature, the veins standing out against my tongue. It wasn’t huge but it was perfect, exactly the size that fits in your mouth without losing control. I pulled it out dripping with spit, took it back in, pulled it out again. A strand of saliva hung from my chin and dripped onto my fake tits.

I stayed like that for a long time, kneeling before him, listening to how his breathing changed rhythm. Every time I did something he liked, his fingers tightened slightly in my hair. When I sped up, he gripped the wig with both hands and started fucking my mouth, driving his hips against my face until I felt the tip hit the back of my throat and my eyes filled with tears.

—You’re doing so good —he murmured—. Don’t stop. Hold me there, just like that, swallow it all.

I didn’t stop. I let him use my mouth like it was a cunt, with tears running through my makeup and spit sliding from my chin down to my cleavage. When he finally let me go, I pulled his cock out with a wet sound and held it throbbing against my cheek, panting.

When he lifted me up and laid me on the bed, he did it firmly but not roughly, as if he knew exactly how much weight to put into every gesture. He stripped me almost without taking off the lingerie, just enough: he pulled my skirt up to my waist, moved my thong aside leaving my ass bare, and worked his way over me with his mouth from my neck downward. He nibbled my nipples through the bra, went down my stomach, ran his tongue along the insides of my thighs, over the stockings, and when he reached my small hard cock he didn’t even linger: he gave it a couple of licks and went lower. He lifted my legs, spread my ass with both hands, and buried his face there without hesitation.

He devoured me with a patience and skill that made me clutch the sheets with both fists. He licked my hole in circles, opened it with the tip of his tongue, penetrated me with those licks until I started shaking. His beard scraped my ass and thighs, and every brush felt like a jolt.

—Ernesto...

—Stay still —he said, without lifting his head—. I’m not done eating your ass yet.

I stayed still, legs spread in the air and heels pointing at the ceiling, letting him do whatever he wanted. He put in one finger first, then two, sliding in on his own spit, opening me slowly. When he felt I was opening without resistance, he pulled his fingers out, gave my thigh a wet kiss, and stood up.

***

When he fucked me, he did it slowly and with plenty of lube. He put a pillow under my hips, lifted my legs by propping my heels on his shoulders, and pressed the tip of his cock against my entrance. He pushed in with calculated slowness. I felt the stretching first, the pressure, the brief burn of the head opening me; then the shaft going in centimeter by centimeter until his balls were slapping my ass and he was all the way inside me.

—Good? —he asked.

—Very good —I said, and it was true—. Put it all in me, don’t take it out.

He started moving. Slow at first, with a steady rhythm, never taking his eyes off my face. He held me by the hips and every thrust was precise, deep, never losing the beat. Every time he pulled almost all the way out and slid back in completely, a moan escaped my throat before I could control it. My eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, and I closed them now and then when the sensation got too intense to keep them open.

—Do you like being fucked like this, slut? —he asked, without speeding up.

—Yes. Don’t stop. Harder.

He accelerated. The hip checks started sounding against my ass, dry, rhythmic, and I felt him getting deeper and deeper each time. He grabbed one fake tit as if it were real, squeezing it, and with his other hand he held my throat without pressing, just resting there, marking who was in charge. I answered by pushing my hips up into him, going out to meet his cock, wanting it deeper.

He didn’t stop. He pulled out, turned me face down, lifted my hips, set me on my knees with my face buried in the sheets, and drove back into me in one thrust. It was different that way: deeper, more urgent. His hand held the back of my neck gently but firmly, pressing my head into the mattress, and I had my forehead against the sheet and my fingers gripping the pillow while he made me his with every slam of his hips.

—This ass of mine —he growled behind me, giving me a smack that echoed through the whole room—. All mine.

—Yours —I said into the mattress—. All yours, daddy, so you can do whatever you want.

He put his thumb in my mouth and I pulled toward him like a bridle, arching my back. He fucked me with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and driving in to the hilt, and each thrust tore a new moan from me. I felt open, used, completely given over, and I couldn’t have wanted it more.

There was a full-length mirror at the back of the bedroom and at some point I opened my eyes and saw the reflection: me, in stockings and heels, with my skirt wrinkled at the waist, the wig a mess falling over my face, mouth open and drooling; and him behind me, tall and hairy and completely surrendered, his shining cock going in and out of my ass. It was the sexiest image I had ever seen in my life, and it was real. It was me. It was everything I had always wanted to be.

He laid me on my side, lifted one leg over his hip and kept going from there, slower, deeper. He bit my neck, whispered filth in my ear: that I was his favorite slut, that he was going to fill my ass with cream, that he was going to keep calling me every week. I touched my hard cock with my hand, soaked in precum, and in three or four pulls I came in jets against my own belly, clenching my ass around his, shaking all over.

—That’s it —he panted, feeling how tightly I was squeezing him—. Come, slut, come with mine inside you.

He held out for a few more thrusts and then suddenly plunged all the way in and stayed there, gripping my hips with both hands. I felt the pulses, the first hot wave, the second, the third, spilling completely inside me. He groaned against my neck, still pushing in small spasms, until the last contraction left him still.

When he finally pulled out, a thread of cum slid between my cheeks and fell onto the garter belt. Neither he nor I made any move to clean it up.

***

When it was over, we lay back on the sheets without speaking, listening to both our breathing slowly return to normal. He draped an arm over me and pulled me close without any dramatic gesture, as if it was something he did all the time. He absentmindedly stroked one ass cheek, still slick with his load.

—You’ve been keeping this hidden for years —he said at last.

—Many years.

—Well, that’s over now, at least here.

—What are you proposing?

Ernesto looked at me with that serious expression he had when he wasn’t joking.

—That this stays between you and me. Only when we have time, only when we can. No pressure, no commitments we don’t want. What do you think?

—I think it’s perfect.

—Do you have any fantasy you want to explore?

I laughed despite myself.

—Several.

—Tell me.

I told him. I talked to him about the scenarios I had built for years without ever being able to make them real, about things I hadn’t even dared write down: tying me to the bed and leaving me there all night, inviting a friend over and having the two of them share me, making me walk around for him in heels all over the house before throwing me to the floor and taking me wherever he wanted. He listened without interrupting, nodding now and then, with his hand still resting on my ass and his cock stirring again against my thigh. When I finished he said:

—One thing at a time. Tonight was enough to get started. Next time we begin with the first one on the list.

We stayed in bed a while longer, talking about nothing in particular, with the whole city outside knowing nothing about what had happened in that apartment. I thought about all the Tuesdays I’d crossed paths with him in the locker room and about the backpack I always carried in the car, just in case.

At last, the “just in case” had arrived.